


Holding Vader's Leash

by soulshrapnel



Series: Playing With Fire [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Darth Vader's life is weird, Disability, Entirely Too Much Lava, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Mustafar, Please Do Not Try Dating Darth Vader, Sadomasochism, Space Fascist Disaster Boys, Telepathy, Topping from the Bottom, surprisingly there will also be angst in this one, the Sith are still on their bullshit, various other kinks probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-11-21 21:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulshrapnel/pseuds/soulshrapnel
Summary: Grand Moff Tarkin is really enjoying his kinky affair with Darth Vader. So much so that he'd like to upgrade it. Nothing fancy, just the kind of arrangement with actual dates as opposed to opportunistic fumbles in the back of a Super Star Destroyer. But dating is hard when you live in a pile of lava, sleep in a bacta tank, and work for a possessive Emperor who doesn't want you having too much fun. And the secrets Vader holds in his sand-hating heart may be darker than even Tarkin can anticipate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to just be smut, and then it was silly smut with a silly plot, and then I actually CAUGHT FEELINGS for this pair of TERRIBLE PEOPLE and now it's just. all over the map. there will definitely be 9 chapters, I have it outlined. enjoy my confusing mishmash story & mind the tags. <3

Grand Moff Tarkin had Darth Vader right where he wanted him. Specifically, he had Vader here in his quarters on the command ship, Force-pressing him up against the wall, doing both painful and unspeakably pleasant things to Tarkin's naked body with his mind.

It would have been difficult to explain the situation to a fellow officer, if one had somehow bypassed Tarkin's personal security codes and walked in, but then again, Tarkin had met people with stranger hobbies.

They had been meeting like this, when the opportunity arose, for about six galactic-standard months. They had busy schedules which only occasionally intersected, generally when there was some mission out in space that involved them both. Experimental military technology was one of the portfolio items Tarkin oversaw on the Emperor's behalf, and every so often some emergency would arise which required the use both of one of his own projects and of Vader's special skills. That gave them a few days at a time on the same ship, if they were lucky, and during those days there would be one or two small gaps in which they could abscond to some private place without being interrupted.

It wasn't as much as Tarkin wanted, but over the course of six galactic-standard months, they'd gotten a feel for each other. What started out as a clumsy, dangerous encounter on impulse had been... refined. Vader knew what Tarkin liked now.

For starters, he liked being immobilized like this, hovering an inch from the Imperial-gray floor and wall that framed him, his body held straight and correct by invisible, magic restraints. Vader had placed Tarkin's hands behind his back today, like a cuffed prisoner, but the sensation did not resemble cuffs. Instead it was a firm, even pressure across every inch of skin from the collarbones down, immovable, with enough give to allow for easy breath but not much more.

The pressure didn't hurt, although it could be tightened to the point of pain if Vader willed. But mostly, it was only what set the scene. The pain came from elsewhere.

An invisible blow landed across Tarkin's shoulders, hard and stinging. _This_ was where the pain came from, phantom sensations indistinguishable in intensity from real ones. Tarkin liked pain, and Vader could beat him almost indefinitely, varying across whole spectrums of different types of assault on his senses, without ever leaving an injury or even a visible mark.

Not that Tarkin would mind a bit of a mark, he thought sometimes. A small one, just a bruise or similar, tucked away beneath his uniform where no one would see. Something that would linger just a little into the long weeks when Vader wasn't around, instead of vanishing to nothing at the scene's end.

Vader hit him again, twice, and then - still with the Force, their actual bodies never touching - sent a tightening pulse up and down the length of Tarkin's hard cock. It was this, not the pain, that caused Tarkin to hiss a strained breath through his teeth.

They had an hour before Tarkin needed to be elsewhere, and they'd used about half of that hour already, alternating pain with teasing pleasure. Tarkin had already passed the point where even the nerves that weren't carrying pain began to sing, where euphoria began to cloud his judgment. Where he wanted to come - but not urgently, not yet. They could draw this out a little longer.

"In the corridors and other rooms neighboring this one," Vader said, "there are presently six living beings. All officers, all inconsequential to me. As your ship's soundproofing is adequate, they do not hear us now." Another strike and another squeeze, both at once. "But they would hear a scream."

Tarkin quirked his eyebrows. "Then it's good that I generally don't scream."

"Perhaps I should make you."

Something else hit Tarkin hard in the back and stayed there, burning, rising inexorably in intensity, as if wings of flame were about to burst from his shoulders. Oh, _good,_ Tarkin thought, wincing. Right on schedule. Ramping up the pain meant that Vader was getting excited now.

"What would your men say," Vader mused, "if they heard you screaming to me for mercy?"

"I imagine they'd know how to mind their own business," Tarkin replied.

Vader's sexual sadism was a rumor about him that had become commonplace among a certain calibre of men; that rumor, in fact, was how Tarkin had found out about it. He had impressed upon everyone who subsequently brought it up that it was not to be discussed. Good officers focused on their work and didn't fixate on the private lives of their superiors. Bad officers, well, those were legion, but they wouldn't last in Tarkin's direct employ for long.

(In _Vader's_ employ, their careers would be even shorter. Heh.)

The burning feeling spread, not gradually but in a shuddering burst, expanding all at once down to the base of his ribs. Tarkin arched, hissing in another breath, and something in Vader's Force-grip caught him as he did, kept his head tilted back and did not let go.

"They would not care, then," said Vader. "That you were hurt. That you were weak."

Tarkin liked to be talked to during sex; or to talk, if he was the one in control. He needed his mind engaged. Vader hadn't been good at that on their first encounter. He'd improved considerably since then. Tarkin was no stranger to providing feedback, gently or sternly as the case required, until the other person had worked out how to do things properly, and over time he'd taught Vader to please him.

He'd taught Vader other things, too. Vader had been doing kink long before Tarkin got to him, but consensual kink for a man like Vader presented difficulties. His other submissives had been too terrified to correct him when he did something wrong. He'd grown pompous, as a result, and careless. Tarkin had corrected that. He'd trained Vader to use a safeword properly - theirs was "Tatooine." To negotiate more carefully. Even to do aftercare, though that one was still only a grudging obedience. They had time to work on it further.

"They could be made not to care," he said blithely.

The flames - Tarkin couldn't help calling them that in his head now - grew. They explored his skin like destroying hands, cupping the small curve of his ass, licking at the backs of his thighs. He groaned in pain, gritting his teeth. It would take much more even than this, he knew, to get the scream Vader wanted.

With some part of the Force that didn't hurt - a gentle pressure, like the one still teasing his cock - Vader stroked up and down the underside of Tarkin's throat.

 _No choking_ was one of Tarkin's hard limits. He'd seen Vader actually kill people, or try to, with that technique more times than he cared to remember. At first Vader had been so circumspect about that limit that he hadn't touched Tarkin on the neck at all. Gradually, as they'd found their bearings and grown to trust each other, they'd negotiated it in a bit more detail. A tease like this was within their current agreement. It was enough to frighten Tarkin, to make him uneasy in a way that he secretly enjoyed, but it wasn't too much.

Tarkin did enjoy being a little afraid of Vader. It was part of the appeal. He liked to be afraid and to hide it, to hold his ground anyway and have his way with what frightened him. Vader wasn't fooled, of course - Vader was a Jedi, and could read emotions easily no matter what one did to disguise them. But it made Tarkin feel strong.

"You are thinking of this," said Vader, "as flame. You are imagining that you are on fire. You are _pathetic_. This is not what being set on fire feels like."

This was such an oddly personal complaint that it startled Tarkin slightly. Had his thoughts offended Vader? Triggered him, even? No, he didn't think so: Vader hadn't actually changed any of what he was doing. He was still working as before at Tarkin's cock, keeping him hard and near his threshold in spite of whatever else might be happening. He hadn't changed the way he was hurting him. That meant he wasn't truly upset; he'd said it only to humiliate him. Tarkin could work with that.

While he was distracted, Vader flipped him over, sending him in a disorienting spin through the room that ended with him lying face-up on his own bunk, still immobilized, his hands pressed flat behind his agonized back. He did make a noise then, not a scream but a startled yelp. Point for Vader, he supposed.

"You are louder," Vader observed, "when I catch you off guard. This implies that you _can_ be loud."

Tarkin smiled ferally. "Is this where I start saying no to you?"

Vader loomed closer. The imagined flames, or whatever they were supposed to be, burned brighter little by little. "Scream for me."

"No."

Vader had been reluctant, at first, to use a safeword properly. He and Tarkin both liked fear. Vader had been concerned that, if Tarkin knew he could end a scene with a word, then there would be nothing real to fear and the whole thing would collapse. It hadn't, of course; that was a beginner's misconception. Having a safeword meant that when Tarkin said _no,_ Vader could ignore it as much as he liked. Vader could _push_ as much as he liked, and Tarkin could push back.

Tarkin liked that very much. And Vader, though he didn't often admit it, liked it too. Tarkin had noticed that ever since their first encounter. When Vader's submissives resisted his will, it made him angry. But it also got him hot.

Both the sensations, pleasure and pain, suddenly flicked down to almost nothing, a guttering candle. Then flared back to life again. Tarkin arched, gritting his teeth and half-muffling a small cry.

"You deny me," Vader said with scorn, "as if it is under your conscious control. As if you are not weak."

"We'll see."

Vader had an advantage here: there was no real way to turn the tables on him in a game like this. Vader's breath was always rhythmic and even, his voice almost always controlled, because his breathing was done by a machine. There was no real way to hurt Vader, short of actual catastrophic injury, with that dark suit's bulk separating him from the world.

But Vader was also at a disadvantage: Tarkin had realized that shortly after their first encounter. It had to do with what Vader got out of a scene. Sex in its usual sense was either impossible for Vader, or was sufficiently inconvenient that he chose to avoid it. But he derived intense pleasure from his submissives by using the Force. At the beginning of each scene, he always took time to focus, tuning his already supernaturally-acute empathic senses directly into Tarkin's. When Vader played with a partner, he felt his partner's pleasure, his partner's fear, his partner's pain, as vividly as if it was his own.

This put a natural limit on any drawn-out teasing or other endurance games that Vader could perform. Vader wasn't going to get off until Tarkin did. And Vader was, by a significant margin, the more impatient of the two.

The same gutter and flare again, pulsing, harder. Tarkin _was_ making sounds against his will now, helpless strangled growls, drowning out his usual will for speech. And, oh, Force, it was still _building._ Normally, when Vader wanted to come, he dropped the pain down to a more manageable level for a bit. But this time the agony behind him and the slick tight grip on his cock were one rhythm, blending into a single thought. He was _so_ close.

He wanted, perversely, to draw it out longer. The longer this went on, the greater the risk of actually screaming. But Tarkin wanted to play that edge today. Wanted to make Vader work for it.

He focused, for a minute, on the sight of Vader looming above him. Tarkin liked looking at Vader. He was beautifully designed, the dark bulk of him, the monstrous inscrutable mask. If some intruder had caught a glimpse of Vader right now, without seeing Tarkin, the sight would have given away almost nothing. Only a sense of coiled power, of something intent, as Vader made small ambiguous movements in the air with his hands, modulating and adjusting his work.

More. Harder. Tarkin felt his voice rising in pitch against his will. He let out a stream of curse words, an impropriety he rarely allowed himself out loud, because it was that or risk screaming for real, or worse, beg. A long string of all the profanity a veteran Imperial officer knew, ending with, "-fuck, Vader, don't _stop,_ ah-"

Then he bit down hard on his tongue as his orgasm burst through him, a merciless wave of sensation that blotted out everything else.

He hadn't screamed. He was _pretty_ sure he hadn't. He had made some noise, and had clenched his teth against it so hard that he now tasted blood. A draw, then.

The pain had already vanished as the aftershocks of pleasure ebbed. Tarkin lay still on the bed and caught his breath, fighting an illogical urge to laugh with relief. A second later, Vader let go of him: the pressure on his limbs winked to nothing, and he sprawled out bonelessly. He removed his arms from behind his back, where they'd started to accumulate pins and needles, and maneuvered into a more comfortable position, flexing his fingers.

Vader made a small motion, as if to walk away. Tarkin raised an exhausted hand and crooked a finger, commanding him back. "Aftercare, Vader. Don't run off."

Vader paused just long enough to convey that he still felt suspicious of this part. But he moved forward and crouched down to the floor beside the bed. He took his time getting into a position that seemed comfortable for him, and Tarkin didn't interrupt. He had only a vague idea how the suit affected Vader's range of motion. But he was happy to accommodate those needs, just as Vader accommodated his own limits and whims.

Finally Vader reached out and laid a heavy gloved hand on Tarkin's shoulder. One last pulse of Force-sensation came with it, something warmly insubstantial, like the feel of a sunbeam on skin.

Tarkin had a small, fleeting fantasy of falling asleep like this, wrapped up in the feeling of Vader next to him, as he had fallen asleep with certain of his lovers in the past. It was impossible, of course; when the hour was up there would be more work to do. Even if they'd had more time, Vader never slept in a bed. Still, he liked the thought. He did want more time.

"You did well," Vader said. "You have become adept at pleasing me."

Which was funny, Tarkin thought, because he could have said the same thing back.

This was all going _so_ well. And, on the current mission at least, it was likely the last encounter they were going to have time for. Which meant it was time for Tarkin to bring up the topic he'd been mulling over.

He was a bit nervous about this. He wasn't at all sure how Vader would react, but if he didn't try, he'd never know.

"Vader," said Tarkin, hearing his voice come out relaxed and sleepy, "may I ask you a personal question?"

Vader didn't remove his hand. "If you accept the consequences."

"Do you eat?"

Vader paused again; Tarkin wondered if he'd been taken aback. "I load nutrient packs, fluids, and electrolytes into my suit at appropriate intervals."

"Ah. So, if I were to invite you to dinner..."

"It would be pointless, yes."

But only because he didn't eat food, not because he wasn't interested in Tarkin. Tarkin had expected as much; time to forge on. "The reason I ask is that, within the next few weeks, I have a block of several days approaching in which my calendar can be entirely cleared. The Senate isn't yet in session, my district is relatively quiet, and there don't seem to be any current military emergencies requiring my presence." Such times were rare and precious for Tarkin, who more or less did the jobs of three different high-ranking officials. "I don't know your own schedule, but I thought perhaps it would be an opportunity to spend time together outside work. If you're interested."

There it was. Tarkin had just asked Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith, out on an actual date. And he would, as Vader had said, accept the consequences.

Vader withdrew his hand, and the warm feeling faded slightly. Tarkin was disappointed. He examined Vader's body language: guarded, he thought. Cautious. Thoughtful. Not immediately repelled, so that was a start.

"What do you envision?" Vader asked.

"Well, as an initial suggestion, my primary place of residence is on Coruscant, near the Senate chambers. It's a comfortable district with a great deal of nightlife and cultural activity, though I don't know your tastes in leisure. Do you like opera?"

Vader's head turned slightly in some inscrutable attempt at expression. "Your mind is presently addled, so I will say this more gently than I otherwise would. Imagine what would happen if you and I went to an opera."

Tarkin was happy to imagine it. They'd go to the box he routinely reserved at the opera house. They'd sit together, perhaps making sardonic conversation, while the other well-heeled luminaries of Coruscant society got settled around them, and then-

Hm.

No, the other people in the opera house wouldn't  _get settled._ They would be too refined to run screaming, or even to openly point and stare, but a shudder would run through the crowd, an ongoing unease more distracting than the opera itself. Because Darth Vader was in the house - there was no disguising that helmeted bulk - and Darth Vader's presence meant death.

And, he reflected, Vader was the sort of person who wanted it that way. One didn't painstakingly construct a physical presence as distinctive as Vader's unless one meant to make use of it. Vader wanted the people who saw him to fear him. He was genuinely deadly in all sorts of ways, but he wanted to be able to wield his persona as deftly as his lightsaber. And if he didn't, the Emperor did; it was too good a psychological weapon to waste.

It was one thing for a man like Vader to frequent certain clubs, as he'd been doing, discreet and specialized and full of people who genuinely enjoyed being frightened. It was another for him to stroll out in public, doing some mundane and unthreatening activity. If he did that, it would cheapen the reputation he'd worked so hard for. A man like Tarkin could put his work aside at the end of the day, on the rare occasions when his days had an end. He could place most of the fear he wielded into weapons and laws, not his physical self. A man like Vader could not. A world in which Vader was easily accepted at the opera house would be even worse for him than the world in which people screamed and ran.

"All right," he said, "I see the problem. Do you have a counter-offer? Something more private?"

"I take personal visitors at my fortress on Mustafar," Vader said. He didn't hesitate this time - that was good. "You may join me there if you wish."

Tarkin wrinkled his nose. He'd never understood why Vader lived out on that half-molten planetoid, far from everything but a few dingy mining operations and surrounded with the very thing that had injured him so badly all those years ago. He wasn't sure if it had been Vader's choice or the Emperor's. Either one of them, he supposed, was perverse enough to have had the idea. But he still wasn't sure he understood the rationale.

"I can't abide lava," he said. "And I certainly don't see how you can. Why not somewhere more pleasant for a change? I happen to own a beach house on the far side of Scarif. Very secluded; no one will interrupt. I could install a meditation chamber or whatever else you require, within reason."

"No beaches," said Vader.

So pools of boiling lava were acceptable but beaches were not? Absurd. "Whyever not?"

"Have you ever gotten sand stuck in a life-support suit?"

Tarkin rolled his eyes. He was fairly sure Vader had crossed the line into being difficult on purpose. "Vader, your suit is rated to keep you protected in hard vacuum, in flames up to five hundred degrees, in temperatures well below freezing, and underwater. I _refuse_ to believe that it can't handle sand."

"I have made my offer. Do not make me repeal it."

Tarkin suppressed a chuckle. Not the conditions he'd hoped for, then, but he _had_ just been offered the very essence of what he wanted. If Vader wanted to be precious about not leaving his fortress, he could do it. "Very well, if you want to be that way. I accept."

"Then I will see you there."

Vader left briskly after that, and Tarkin went about the business of cleaning up and putting his uniform back on. As he returned to work, he found himself smiling slightly.

He wondered what in the galaxy he was getting himself into.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Emperor decides to interfere in Vader and Tarkin's relationship, in a most unwelcome manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then suddenly: Jarring POV shift! Jarring tone shift! We're on a different ship now! Not even sex in this chapter, Jacqueline, what are you DOING
> 
> Don't worry, there will be smut again in chapter 3.

Vader had a bad feeling about something as he strode off the Super Star Destroyer and onto the slightly smaller ship that would ferry him back home. He hoped it wasn't what he thought it was.

He had been careful with Tarkin. Mixing work and sex was never ideal, but he'd been _careful._ Discreet as the situation warranted, indulging himself only during gaps in the schedule. He'd never let Tarkin believe that they were closer than they were, nor let it influence his judgment on the field. Even the offer he'd made, a weekend alone together at his fortress, was an offer he'd made to other submissives before, though rarely. It had not been a problem then.

And yet.

The nervous expression on the face of the officer who came to greet him - even more intimidated than normal, and not entirely directed at him - confirmed his suspicions.

"Welcome aboard, Lord Vader," said the officer. Vader didn't recognize him and didn't care to; just another fresh-faced military man in his thirties, indistinguishable from all the other Imperial minions on a given Star Destroyer. "We'll be underway en route to Mustafar momentarily. We've only just received a transmission for you from the Emperor; he commands your response. Will you take the call in your quarters?"

"Yes," said Vader, not breaking his stride. The officer scuttled away, emanating relief; if the transmission was private between Vader and Palpatine, then he didn't have to be further involved.

Vader's quarters on the Star Destroyer were pitiful, scarcely more than what an ordinary general would get: a dark room, comfortable and private but small in the way of shipboard quarters, with a meditation chamber hastily installed in one corner where a bunk ought to be. Vader doubted that the chamber was up to code, but this trip was only scheduled to take a few hours, so he likely would not require it.

He lazily used the Force to push the appropriate buttons on his room's communication console, opening the secure transmission that had already been routed there. Then he dropped to one knee, the correct posture for beginning a meeting with his master.

Palpatine's holographic likeness shimmered into the air before him. The visual quality wasn't good, but the feeling of Palpatine's presence was as strong as always, a subtle power that sank in through the smallest cracks.

"You called for me, my master."

"Yes. I hear that your mission against the pirates in the Lothal system went well."

Apparent praise; and yet, Palpatine had not invited him to rise.

Vader did not like to kneel. It wasn't _exactly_ accurate to say that it hurt him. Every part of Vader hurt all the time anyway, in spite of the numbing medicines he took. But some things made him flare and cramp more than others, and those things annoyed him. The organic sections of his legs, what little of them hadn't been replaced by prosthetics, were among the most badly burned parts of his body, and they were especially prone to complain when he did something mildly out of the ordinary.

Palpatine knew this. Palpatine only kept Vader kneeling when he was displeased.

"We were victorious," Vader confirmed.

"I also hear," said Palpatine, "that you have made personal plans with an official who is rather important to me. We should discuss that, my friend."

As Vader had thought. He'd hoped he was wrong. He had been careful; as far as he could tell, he'd done everything correctly. And yet.

He was sure he would hear all about what the problem was momentarily, so he did not ask.

Vader and Palpatine's bond was spiritual, not sexual. The master/apprentice dynamic was the heart of Sith practice, arguably even moreso than the Dark Side itself. The Dark Side was not specific to Sith, after all. There were other traditions, ways of using the Dark Side that could be mastered by an individual or a coven, much as Jedi and Sith alike had attempted to stamp them out. But being Sith, specifically, meant existing in a pair. Unequal in power, but mutually entangled; cooperative but struggling for control; constantly seething on the edge of betrayal. That was where a Sith's power arose. Everything Vader did with his submissives was only its paler, more hedonistic shadow.

But Palpatine could be as jealous as any lover. He tolerated Vader having a sexual life, as long as he could relate it to the Dark Side in some way, but he didn't like steady partners or complicated feelings about them. He didn't like Vader having friends, either, for that matter, or hobbies, or literally anything else that wasn't about him.

Palpatine's hologram nostrils flared, like an animal smelling blood. "You have spent more time with Grand Moff Tarkin in the past half-year than any of your other partners, by a considerable margin. You have developed something of an attachment to him."

"He is nothing to me. A mere plaything."

Vader remembered what it felt like to be in love, wildly and completely, so in love that it became a consuming obsession. He was not capable of that anymore. The part of his heart that could do it had burned to ash many years ago, along with the rest of his old self. Nothing remained there but a wound. Nowadays, when Vader grew to like a particular submissive - as he had, now, with Tarkin - it was such a modest liking that it did not deserve acknowledgement. Like his preference for one kind of transport ship over another, or for a color.

Palpatine chuckled. "You know better than to lie to me, my friend. I sense your true feelings. Tarkin is more than a plaything to you. But not too much more, and no threat to the existing order. No, I would not bother normally to correct you about such a small thing. Except that, recently, I have foreseen something."

That was odd. "What is your concern?"

"I have foreseen that in the future - a year or two from now, perhaps - some attachment will arise for you that does pose a threat. Not Tarkin. Perhaps not a lover. Perhaps not something so simple as another person at all. I cannot yet see it clearly. But soon, someone or something will attract your loyalty strongly enough that you will be tempted to abandon my teachings. To betray me."

"That is not possible," Vader said flatly.

Not the way Palpatine meant it, at least. Vader was constantly tempted to betray his master: that was part of what it meant to be Sith. Vader hated Palpatine every bit as strongly as he needed him. He had run the odds many times: what it would take to catch Palpatine by surprise, to overpower him. To throw him down some bottomless hole and take his place as ruler of the galaxy.

But then Vader would be alone. He had never found a suitable Force-sensitive person to be his own apprentice; by the time he'd been ready to think about it seriously, he and Palpatine had already murdered all those people. He could not be a Sith by himself. He could not be Emperor by himself, either, not really. To keep the galaxy in order, even by force and by fear, required a political finesse that Vader lacked. No one had the power to depose him directly, if he took the throne, but even a weight like Vader's could not be thrown around everywhere at once. The majority of the galaxy would quickly slip out of his control and into anarchy.

An apprentice he could trust, someone who did know how to play politics, could have done it. Tarkin, ironically, could have done it - and maybe _that_ was what was bothering Palpatine. If Vader ever figured out how to kill Palpatine without dying in the attempt, he could install someone like Tarkin to advise and do the hard parts of ruling for him.

And that would be fun for about five minutes. Until Tarkin figured out that he didn't actually _need_ Vader for anything in particular. Tarkin had a disposition nearly as cruel as Palpatine's, and if he ruled the whole galaxy, that "nearly" would vanish. So everything would turn out the same as before, except worse, because Vader would then be the only known Force user in existence. He would be alone.

He'd run those odds long ago, with a variety of candidates, long before he and Tarkin had done anything untoward together. No lover, no other person or ideal that Vader could imagine, would ever change these basic facts. Palpatine had Vader, and Palpatine would keep him.

"You do not think so now," said Palpatine. "But in a year or two, things will not seem so simple. Which is why we must practice. You must be reminded how to suppress the more sentimental of your emotions in favor of obedience to my will."

Rage simmered under Vader's armor. The Jedi Order had been like this about attachments, too. He'd thought once that the Dark Side, made of passion and selfishness, would be different. But it had turned out that everyone was the same. Just a lot of sanctimonious masters, on every side, who didn't want Vader to have anything good.

"What must I do?" he asked.

"Nothing, really. You will continue your little rendezvous as planned. Tarkin will visit you, and you may enjoy yourself with him as you like. Meanwhile, I will arrange for him to meet with an accident."

Vader went absolutely still.

"Has Tarkin displeased you, my master?" he asked, very carefully.

He was used to being used this way, as a convenient disposal mechanism for people Palpatine was tired of. But usually the method of disposal was more direct. He'd hunt them down and cut them to pieces with his lightsaber, or choke them to death. He was not accustomed to _subterfuge._  Luring people to their dooms like a seductive secret agent. It repelled him.

Palpatine chuckled. "Oh, no. He is one of my best officials. He would be difficult to replace, which is why I will not kill him. He will make a full recovery." He leaned forward, bright and intent, now that he'd gotten to the part where he could explain his plan. "But you will not help him, my friend. You will not warn him. You will not try to prevent the harm that befalls him, even if you foresee what form it takes. You will not take a single action, even the lifting of a finger, to lessen it. Even if he begs you for help, you will do nothing. I know you will not fail me in this. You will require further lessons if you do."

Vader silently made a fist.

He imagined, for the thousandth time, defying Palpatine. Taking out his lightsaber, as if Palpatine was actually in the room, and skewering him through the heart. Cutting off his head. Lifting him from his throne and slowly choking the life from him.

He didn't bother trying to hide those thoughts. Palpatine liked hate.

If he didn't like hate, he wouldn't have designed the lesson this way, like digging his fingers in to Vader's weakest and most broken parts.

Palpatine's brow wrinkled, a mockery of pity. "Oh, I know it hurts you. I feel your anger. But that is why the lesson is necessary. I fear I must remind you what you learned at your very beginning. You cannot save anyone, my friend. Not from death. Not from yourself. And certainly not from me."

Vader wondered how many officers served on this second-rate Star Destroyer. At least one of them had likely done something incompetent in the recent past. Maybe whoever had supervised the meditation chamber's shoddy installation. Vader hoped he could find that person, because he needed to go strangle someone right fucking _now._

"As you wish, my master," he said, bowing his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader welcomes Tarkin to his fortress. Neither one of them is fully prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I belatedly added Rogue One to this work's list of fandoms because, let's face it, a LOT of this and the subsequent chapters are just going to be extended riffs on the lava fortress sequence from that movie. None of the actual heroes or events from Rogue One will appear, just, y'know, FORTRESS.
> 
> This means you can picture Tarkin being CGI if you want to, although I'm not sure why you'd want to.

Tarkin looked down apprehensively as his shuttle spiraled towards the darkly clouded expanse of Mustafar. He was looking forward to this weekend. He just wished that he had a better idea of what to expect, and that it didn't have to involve quite so much lava.

Wrapping up work before his two-day break had taken more time than expected. An urgent file had dropped onto his desk at the last moment; he'd been able to delegate the very most urgent parts and delay the more substantive ones until his return, but those arrangements had taken some time, and now he was later than he'd hoped to be. He had kept Vader's staff carefully updated, and once he'd actually managed to leave Coruscant, there had been no further delay. But it was now evening Mustafar time, which was not ideal.

He had taken a private transport and shuttle, the kind used by rich civilians with higher-than-average security needs, hired out of his own personal funds. He was strict with himself about things like that; the last thing the Senate needed was an expense scandal.

He had changed out of his work uniform too, at long last. He wore civilian clothes, which were soft against his skin and made him feel a little bit vulnerable after weeks on end of dressing like a Grand Moff. A white silk tunic and pressed dark trousers. Comfortable shoes for once. No jacket or cloak, since, by all reports, the weather on Mustafar was never anything but hot. All understated, but tailored and fitted in ways that anyone on Coruscant would have recognized as a sign of high class. The sort of thing he would have worn to a casual evening at a restaurant or gallery. He had no idea if Vader cared about these social signifiers or not, but Tarkin was determined to do things properly.

The shuttle pressed its way down through the smog, and at last the planet's surface came properly into view. A blasted black plain, crisscrossed with red-orange rivers of molten rock.

Very few people actually _liked_ lava. Tarkin had disliked it ever since the Clone Wars, when he'd spent time as a prisoner of war on a lava planet. An even worse planet than Mustafar, actually; one that had been broken entirely open by some astronomical-level disaster. Even its intact half now seethed with the superheated blood of a dying world. The escape, over cliffs and through lava-filled caverns, had been harrowing. Tarkin had come to admire that planet, the way he admired all absurdly and usefully deadly things, but he had hated every single minute on its surface.

But Mustafar didn't look like the Citadel. The Citadel's lava had been yellowish and strange, and had smelled strongly of sulfur. Mustafar was a more sensible color, and the smell that faintly penetrated into the shuttle was cleaner, like burnt iron.

Tarkin squared his shoulders.

Vader's fortress loomed up forbiddingly on a cliff - of course it was a cliff, Tarkin thought. Vader was too melodramatic to settle for anything else. A glowing river of lava flowed straight through the fortress's lower floor and spilled down the cliffside in a scarlet waterfall. Tarkin was amused; the R&D portion of his mind spent a moment running estimates on exactly how expensive such a feature would be to maintain. It would need a stabilizing force-field, at the very least, to stop it from unexpectedly melting anything it wasn't supposed to. And perhaps regular dredgings with specialized equipment, to stop newly-hardened rock from building up where it shouldn't and diverting the whole thing. Or would the force-field negate that need? An actual engineering team with expertise in lava would know, and had no doubt been involved at every stage.

Money was no object when you were the Emperor's apprentice, he supposed.

"These are the coordinates you listed," said the shuttle's pilot. "Is this the fortress?"

"Yes," said Tarkin. "That's the one."

The pilot's name was Pali; Tarkin made a point of learning the names of anyone who controlled a fragile piece of flight equipment while he was inside. She was a civilian in her forties with medium-brown skin and a bob of black hair. She handled the controls with smooth assurance and a coolly professional demeanor. If either lava or high Imperial officials bothered her, she gave no sign. She could have made a good military pilot, Tarkin thought, if women weren't so heavily discouraged from the military. But that career would have been less lucrative, and likely shorter. Aside from Tarkin and Pali, the shuttle held a pair of Tarkin's personal security guards and a small astromech droid.

Pali flipped a few switches, communicating in a pilot's shorthand with the automated systems that controlled access to Vader's landing pad. "Coming in for the landing now, sir."

The shuttle came down smoothly, settling with hardly a bump and immediately easing its loading ramp open. The burnt-iron smell came in more strongly, now that they were open to the air, and with it, an oppressive, muggy heat. Mustafar had no liquid water apart from what was imported to its populated areas, and it surprised Tarkin that the air on such a world could be humid. Vapor in the air, he supposed. He was glad he hadn't gone for the jacket.

The landing platform where they'd settled was a rectangular block jutting straight out of the lava river. It gave enough room for a single standard-sized shuttle, plus adequate room for passenger loading. Beyond that, it tapered into a walkway barely big enough for two guards to walk abreast. The walkway lead under an overhang into a semiprivate space with the rest of the fortress towering overhead, and a heavy portcullis marking the entrance to the fortress itself.

"Here we are," said Pali. "Pickup is reserved in three calendar days, at local noon, is that correct?"

"Yes, thank you. My staff will be in touch to handle the payment"

One of Tarkin's security guards handed over his luggage, a small suitcase. He had already briefed the guards, and they would not be accompanying him here; to bring them inside would have been considered an insult to Vader's hospitality. If any situation arose here in which Vader and his own guards couldn't protect Tarkin, then his own security would be of little help anyway.

"Enjoy your stay," said Pali, as bland as before. It was clear that she either had no idea why anybody would visit this fortress willingly, or had all too good an idea; but she was too professional to betray any question or irony. Tarkin liked her.

The shuttle pulled its ramp back up and lifted off again, almost as soon as Tarkin had strode out of it with his luggage and onto the platform.

At the same instant, the portcullis-style door before him slowly rose.

Vader stood framed there, light and steam obscuring any detail of the room behind him, looking magnificently as he always did. The planetoid's reddish light reflected off his helmet, glinting like blood. Perhaps he'd had someone shine and polish his suit to get that effect, or perhaps it was Tarkin's overheated imagination.

"You have kept me waiting," Vader said, his voice carrying easily in the gloom.

And Tarkin didn't know what else he'd expected Vader to say. _It's nice to see you, Tarkin,_ perhaps, but no.

"I believe I already conveyed my apologies," he replied, "but it's nice to see you, too."

There was nowhere to walk but forward, and he did so with head held high.

*

Vader carefully watched Tarkin's face as they both walked toward each other, meeting in the middle.

The entrance to Vader's fortress was designed to look fearsome, and many official visitors never got further. The space was shadowy, and open to the oppressively hot air, though Vader's suit kept him at a comfortable temperature regardless. There was no place to sit comfortably while a visitor waited to be heard, only a thin walkway which widened near the doors into a circular platform perhaps ten feet across. No railings, of course; the general Imperial view of railings was that anyone careless enough to need them was better removed from the gene pool. The lava river ran many feet below them, red and angry, sending up gouts of steam. A few small round droids flew along the surface, tending it.

Tarkin was never one to display nerves, but he did look cautious as he walked along, examining his surroundings.

This should have been a good moment. Vader should have been pleasantly tense with anticipation, as Tarkin was. His biggest fears in that moment should have been simple things. Whether he'd make a good impression. How to keep a restless mind like Tarkin's entertained. Whether, without the structure and scarcity of a military environment, they would tire of each other.

Palpatine had, of course, ruined that.

He shouldn't have cared. That was, perhaps, the strongest evidence that the lesson was necessary. Vader was a Dark Lord of the Sith, death incarnate. Just because he liked fucking someone didn't mean he had to care for their life. And Tarkin's life wasn't even in danger; he had Palpatine's guarantee of that. Whatever happened would be smaller. _A full recovery._

But he didn't like it, and he didn't want Tarkin to be here for it, and he could say nothing.

Some traitorous part of his mind was already enjoying looking at Tarkin. He rarely saw Tarkin wearing something not his work uniform. He'd picked something conservative but finely cut, as if they were gliding around the high-class parts of Coruscant after all. Only the tunic's short sleeves stood out in deference to Mustafar's weather.

Submissives often wore almost nothing when they came to meet Vader - here or, more often, in the club that he frequented. Or else degrading clothes, collars and cuffs, marking themselves out as his prey. Sometimes they asked, tremulously, what Lord Vader would prefer them to wear. Tarkin's choice of dress, so far, was of a type that Vader saw more rarely. Clothes that flattered him, that drew the eye, but that also demanded he be taken seriously. Clothes that could be seen in public, even if his actual relationship with Vader could not.

They came to face each other in the middle of the rounded platform, and briefly stopped there, sizing each other up. Tarkin fished in one of his pockets and drew out a small pouch.

"I brought something small," he said. "In continued apology for having been delayed, and in recognition of your hospitality."

Curious, Vader levitated the pouch out of Tarkin's hands and drew out the gift from inside. It was a small decorative puzzle, the kind that involved untangling irregularly shaped knickknacks from each other, made from polished wood and stone.

Vader had never had much patience for high society, but he had drifted at its vague edges long enough to decode the meaning of such a gift. Wine or confections would have been useless to him, and flowers in a lava fortress would have looked ridiculous. The puzzle was something Vader could at least pretend he'd use. It was a mildly atypical choice, but its level of thought and expense was within the appropriate range. It was an entirely polite gift of the type that could be exchanged between two adults in the exploratory early stages of a romantic relationship.

He felt a flare of anger.

Tarkin wasn't some starry-eyed civilian. Tarkin was an Imperial officer who'd climbed the ranks ruthlessly, who'd wormed his way with eager ease into the Empire's darkest corners and most casual cruelties. Tarkin wasn't a Sith, but Palpatine had been a mentor to him, too, from very early on. Yet somehow he was able to make a gesture like this, blithely, casually, as if there was no vulnerability implied. As if he could not expect repercussions.

Tarkin was _allowed_ to have those feelings.

Vader dropped the puzzle back into its pouch and the pouch, forcefully, back into Tarkin's hand.

"That is unnecessary," he said. "Put it down."

Tarkin raised his eyebrows, but he did as he was told, bending down to set the box at his feet without comment. That kind of obedience was quite unusual for Tarkin.

Vader had an advantage here, he suspected, because Tarkin was unused to the surroundings. There were no published rules of engagement for how to have a date in a lava fortress. So until he got his bearings, he would follow Vader's lead. If anything unusual occurred, his first thought would be that it was some quirk of how things worked at the fortress which he simply didn't yet understand.

But Vader still could not show too much anger. He was not allowed to warn Tarkin, and Tarkin was an inquisitive man. If he noticed Vader was unhappier than usual, he would want to know why. If he realized that Vader was _worried,_ then that would be a warning, in itself.

Vader was not good at hiding his anger. The attempt would only make him angrier. He'd act out. He'd had trouble with that all his life, and his Sith training had only made it worse. He would not be able to hide his anger from someone as perceptive as Tarkin.

But he could pretend that his anger was part of a scene.

He gestured to the platform at Tarkin's feet. "On your knees," he commanded.

Tarkin's eyebrows ratcheted up another notch, so Vader impatiently used the Force and pushed him down. He held him, hovering in an appropriate kneeling position, an inch above the platform. Tarkin looked at him questioningly, unsure if this was a fortress procedure, or a sex thing, or what.

Vader focused and began to attune himself to Tarkin's senses, starting at the crown of the head and working his way down. This process didn't take as long with an established partner as a new one, but it still required a minute of concentration. Applying mild sensation to each part of the body and focusing until he could actually feel it, bit by bit. Testing to see if any small aches or sensitivities had been acquired or lost, or if everything was as he remembered.

Tarkin could feel it, of course; he wouldn't have been able to hone in this way on something Tarkin couldn't feel. It also answered Tarkin's unspoken question as to why he was kneeling.

"Really?" said Tarkin. "Here? Were you that pent up waiting for me?"

"We will not be interrupted," Vader promised. He had guards and human servants, but they knew not to spy or interfere. And while they were technically open to the air, there were no other life-forms around for many miles. Everyone on Mustafar knew better than to creep in on Vader's territory uninvited.

When he had finished his focusing process, all the way down to Tarkin's toes, Vader felt as though he had two bodies. One, the usual, safely suited and under his full control, although broken in its usual various ways. The other, retaining some agency that wasn't his, but carrying its own set of equally vivid sensations. He felt Tarkin's clothes against Tarkin's skin; the tunic was softer than it had looked. He felt the tension in Tarkin's shoulders where he held himself straight and correct. He felt Tarkin's heart and his breathing, not too quick yet, just alert. A mild sheen of sweat was beginning at the back of his neck from the heat.

He felt other things, too. Vader always noticed any strong emotions in his vicinity, but in this state he felt Tarkin's feelings and impulses more clearly. He felt Tarkin's mild unease with his surroundings, his dry amusement at the rush that Vader appeared to be in, the beginnings of arousal as he savored the feeling of Vader exploring him. He had a sense of surface thoughts, too, but not intelligibly. More like the background hubbub of a crowded room, a knot of blurred conversation from which occasionally a word or two would surface. He could have pushed for much more clarity if he was performing a mind probe, but that wasn't Vader's kink.

It was already a comfort just to have Tarkin's body to focus on, full of interesting things that didn't hurt and that didn't know nor fear the extent of the hurt in his future. But anger still burned in Vader's real body, seeking an outlet.

Besides, now that he'd started, Tarkin would expect him to put on a show.

Keeping focus on Tarkin's senses, Vader deliberately let go his Force grip on everything but the lower legs.

Then he hit Tarkin hard across the shoulders.

It was a Force impact, of course; Vader's real body barely moved. Tarkin, unused to being hit without the Force securely holding him, swayed slightly. To his credit, he remained upright. Vader felt all of it: the small burst of pain at impact, the movement and countermovement, the slight surprise despite the outer poker face.

"This is not Coruscant," Vader said.

Tarkin's tone was dry. "I hadn't gathered that."

Vader hit him again. He was readier for it this time, and Vader felt wiry muscles bracing against the impact. He did that several times, letting himself simply vent aggression for half a minute.

Vader wasn't fond of his own body's background pain, but he liked feeling the pain that he gave his submissives. Vader was in control of that pain. He was the one who had put it there.

But Tarkin would expect more than just pain, of course.

"You should not have come here," Vader said. "You have left your domain and entered mine. Yet you approach me with arrogance. You forget what you are."

He efficiently stripped off Tarkin's tunic as he spoke, and then all the rest of his clothing. With a stray thought, he dropped the clothes and the puzzle pouch onto an unused stretch of catwalk, out of the way. He took a moment to admire Tarkin kneeling there, bared to him. Tarkin wasn't Vader's usual type, but Vader liked the long straight lines of him, the rangy alertness. He'd liked the look of Tarkin since long before they started doing things like this.

Tarkin smiled slightly. "And what am I this time, Vader?"

Vader answered by hitting him harder.

Force-sensations did not have to carry momentum, but they could if Vader willed. He could vary the momentum and the intensity of the pain independently of each other. Normally he held Tarkin still, so momentum didn't matter. This time he wanted to watch Tarkin struggle. Wanted to beat him down until he couldn't get up again.

"You are merely a toy. You are here for me to use to please myself. As you asked to be."

Dirty talk didn't come naturally to Vader, but it didn't have to. He could feel the small glow of pleasure when he got the right words, or close to them. With feedback like that, Vader could learn almost anything a submissive liked.

He hit Tarkin again, harder this time, before he could get smug about anything. Tarkin wobbled forward and caught himself with one hand on the platform, but pulled himself back upright.

It was unclear to Vader if Tarkin thought this was obedience or defiance. Refusal to be pushed by Vader's will, or insistence on kneeling as Vader had commanded. Maybe both. Maybe one disguised with plausible deniability as the other.

"You know you are a toy," Vader said. "Yet you come to me like an equal, bearing gifts."

He repeated the same blow from a slightly different angle, and this time, when Tarkin caught himself, Vader seized hold of his hand and affixed it there with the same force trapping his knees. That felt like cheating, a little. Vader preferred the idea of hurting Tarkin until he _couldn't_ get up, even without restraint. But that would take too long. Knowing Tarkin's stubbornness, he suspected that the only way to do it would be to apply so much punishment that it ruined the rest of the scene. Fine, then. He'd cheat and take Tarkin to the ground with the Force.

Tarkin wobbled, ending up crouched on all fours.

"I do not need gifts. I am second in line to the Emperor. The fools of the Empire try to bribe and curry favor with me every day. But that is not what this is. You know what this is."

A flurry of hard slaps, across Tarkin's bare lower back, then his inviting ass. Tarkin was breathing harder now, sweating slightly in the heat. Vader could feel it.

"Splendid," said Tarkin, clearly trying to be deadpan, although his shortness of breath spoiled the effect slightly. "So I don't need to bother being polite next time."

Without causing a sensation, Vader let go of Tarkin's trapped hand. Then he sent such a blow to the backs of Tarkin's thighs that he went sprawling forward onto his belly. Vader clamped down with the Force right there. Held him lying an inch above the platform, helpless. He felt Tarkin's muscles tense in an attempt to push himself back up, half a second too late.

"You try to reassert yourself," Vader observed, "even now. You do not learn."

He hated this and liked it, too. Tarkin had a strength of will Vader rarely encountered, within kink or outside of it. Beat him, degrade him, and he'd ask for more with snarling delight, but he wouldn't break.

Just once, Vader wanted to find a way to snap something inside Tarkin. To make him docile, pliant, small. He wanted to know once and for all that he was the stronger one. Yet he also didn't want it, not entirely. Tarkin's intransigence was part of what kept Vader coming back. Wanting to try everything he could think of, until the heat between them became so intense that it no longer mattered who won. Just how soon they could finish it, how soon they could both be satisfied.

He loosened his Force-grip just a little. An inch of give, enough to allow visible movement, but not the useful kind. Vader normally kept submissives still; he had more finesse that way. But today he didn't want finesse. He wanted to be rough and crude. He wanted to watch Tarkin writhe.

Tarkin thrashed pleasingly without accomplishing anything. He pushed his hands against the floor, but couldn't rise more than an inch.

"There is no way," said Vader, "for you to win."

Tarkin made a _hm_ sound, but didn't immediately speak.

Vader knew, because Tarkin had said so before, that he didn't always think of submission as _losing_. Even immobilized, tormented and fucked to the limits of endurance, Tarkin maintained a frustrating and adorable belief that he _was_ winning. He'd wanted sex with Vader, went the usual line of argument, and Vader had leapt at the chance to give him just that, so who was to say that Tarkin hadn't won?

But Vader hadn't fucked Tarkin just yet, so he'd wisely not started up that argument again.

The real counter-argument was that Vader didn't do this for Tarkin. He _liked_ Tarkin, maddeningly so. But Vader didn't give Tarkin sex out of the goodness of his heart. Vader did sex because _Vader_ wanted to feel it, all of it, and his submissives were necessary means to that end. Toys, as he liked to tell them. It was such a thrill to some of them, being told that and knowing its truth.

Tarkin knew all of that very well. He simply chose to ignore it.

Vader casually knocked Tarkin's knees apart, spreading them wide. He jerked Tarkin's hips upwards slightly and held them there. This was not strictly necessary. If Vader wanted inside a partner, he could do it regardless of position. But he wanted Tarkin like this, physically forced into a position that completely exposed him, leaving it absolutely unambiguous what he was here for.

Tarkin tried to pull away a moment more, and then went curiously still. Vader caressed the backs of his thighs, letting him briefly adjust. And letting himself soak up more of Tarkin's sensations. Tarkin was being quieter than normal - absorbed by trying to move, maybe, or by the unusual surroundings - but he still felt very much alert. Uneasy around the lava. Uncomfortable in the heat. Slightly miffed about something, which he would no doubt verbalize eventually if it was important. And aroused despite himself, starting to harden in anticipation, even though Vader hadn't done anything yet but hit him.

Vader didn't plan on anything long, or slow, or gentle today.

With a soft, firm Force-touch, he moved up between Tarkin's legs, over the perineum, to press against his exposed hole. He circled it steadily, easing him open. Varying the sensation, warm and wet, cool and buzzing, until he found what relaxed the flesh most.

He often didn't have to bother even with this level of buildup. The Force didn't have to have friction any more than it had to have momentum, and Vader's usual methods were quite safe. If he wanted to create sensation inside a partner, he could slip inside easily, painlessly, at almost any time. He'd done that with Tarkin often, as a supplement to other acts. But today he wanted to focus on it more, to be rougher, and that would require preparation.

"Words, Vader," Tarkin suddenly said, interrupting his thoughts. "Keep talking. You know we have more fun that way."

Oh, for Force's sake, this man was insatiable. Vader hit him in the ribs this time. Tarkin was knocked an inch to the side, as far as Vader's grip on him allowed. The next second, Vader felt him gasp as he slipped inside, lightly at first, the small slick touch that they normally used for this. He felt Tarkin's cock pulse, nearly hard already. It was a good feeling. It didn't at all slacken Vader's annoyance.

"This," he said, "is not a game."

And the small mental burst that he felt from Tarkin was a burst of _interest,_ incongruously. This wasn't one of Vader's well-worn lines. It was a new angle, and Tarkin was curious now to see where it went.

He did think it was a game. It should have been one. Everything between them _had_ been a game, until Palpatine interfered.

Now it was-

He didn't know what it was. He was angry and afraid. He wanted to bury those feelings in sadistic lust, and it might have _worked_ with someone else. Another submissive might have cowered and begged, made him feel strong for an hour. Or gone limp and let him kick them around freely. Not Tarkin.

He pushed into Tarkin harder, a slender presence with some weight to it now. He curled it inward and felt the flare of bright pleasure as it found the most sensitive spot. Felt Tarkin inhale sharply with delight.

"Really?" he said with that breath. "What is it, then?"

Vader jerked Tarkin partway up off the floor, his legs still spread wide but his head raised at such an angle that he couldsee over the platform's edge. Tarkin liked fear, and Vader liked fear, and he'd noticed that Tarkin was nervous around lava. He wanted Tarkin to have a perfect view of the river below them, then, seething and steaming as it snaked through the fortress's foundation. If he refused to fear Vader properly, let him fear something else.

He didn't know what he could actually say in response to Tarkin's question, but Tarkin was going to needle him until he said something.

 _It isn't difficult,_ he remembered Tarkin coaching him, earlier. _You can say whatever's on your mind._

Heh. No he couldn't. But he could say any words that came to his head and weren't prohibited, he supposed.

"This is my domain," Vader said. "This place is nothing but death."

That seemed to be on the right track, judging from the attention Tarkin paid. Vader pulled the Force-touch partway out of him and pushed in again, roughly, beginning to ramp up speed. He was careful to maintain an appropriate angle, one that hit the best nerves unerringly with each thrust. He could feel Tarkin mentally curling around the sensation, giving himself up to it despite his fear. He liked that feeling.

"You come to this place," said Vader, "expecting easy pleasure. Sweet pleasure. What you should have expected is to burn."

It wasn't a warning. It definitely wasn't a warning if it was vague like this, said during sex, disguised as the degrading and intimidating talk that Tarkin liked best. The kind that he ate up like candy in its cadences but blithely ignored in its substance. Tarkin wouldn't learn anything at all from this.

He felt Tarkin shiver, his toes curl.  _Fuck,_ but he liked the way Tarkin lit up inside, on those rare occasions when Vader got his lines exactly right. Stronger than anything he could achieve with pain alone. All the uncomfortable moments fumbling around, trying to think of things to say, were worth it for moments like this.

But it was strange that this had to be what made it happen, this non-warning disguised as a game, when the danger that lurked was so real.

Vader pushed into Tarkin harder, changed the shape he'd made inside Tarkin's body, stretched him a little. Tarkin made a small, delightful, half-choked noise. Vader didn't slacken his pace. He wanted pain. He wanted to fuck Tarkin so hard that the pain was exactly equal to the pleasure, get Tarkin lost in that state where he couldn't decide if he wanted less or more. He just had to keep talking long enough to get there.

"Move against me," he instructed, slackening his grip a little more. "Try to get up."

He'd meant it mostly as a way to buy time, but Tarkin obeyed. This far into the scene, the shaky, irregular movement was disorienting. Maybe a bad idea. Vader had to concentrate hard to keep up what he was doing, his focus on Tarkin's senses, his grip holding Tarkin safe, his mind controlling the nonexistent thing that thrust and curled into Tarkin more and more. And he'd have to keep speaking on top of that, of course. Submissives often didn't realize how much mental skill it took, being able to do all these things correctly at once. It was one of the reasons why Palpatine tolerated him doing this at all. Sex might be self-indulgent, but it helped hone the kind of multi-pronged, in-the-moment concentration that Vader would also need in battle.

He didn't know if Tarkin could reach orgasm just from this, or if he'd need his cock touched at just the right moment, but either way they were starting to get close. He just had to keep talking through it.

"This is what you are," Vader said. "Helpless against my will. Caught and used for pleasure by forces beyond your understanding."

"Yes," Tarkin breathed, his eyes half-lidding.

"You walk into shadow and flame, expecting them to please you, to serve you." Fuck, he was so close, he wasn't even sure what he was saying. "When you cannot even evade their grasp. You refuse to be afraid. One day that will kill you."

He lost himself in Tarkin's writhing for a half a second longer before his brain caught up with his mouth and he realized what he'd just said.

Tarkin wasn't going to die. Palpatine had been very clear about that. But those words felt real. Not like words he'd pulled out of the air, but like the edge of something large.

No. Not now. Vader was not going to have yet another fucking set of death visions. Not _fucking now._

He abandoned his previous plan and threw Tarkin bodily across the platform.

Several things happened at that point. Enough to successfully distract Vader, at least. Tarkin's mind whited out in a burst of absolute terror. Vader caught him, of course. It was easy to ensure Tarkin's body landed where it needed to, crumpled near the platform's edge without any real danger of falling. It took more concentration to ensure that it did so without injury or unwanted pain. Vader secured him in an awkward position on his side, an inch above the floor, and set his grip back to its usual strength, allowing no movement below the collarbones but breath.

Tarkin blinked, disoriented, and craned his neck to look up at Vader. Only about half a second had passed. "What-?"

He was still hard. He hadn't had time in that half second to become anything else. Vader had partway lost the mood, but he still felt more like finishing than like calling off the scene. Let them get something good out of this, at least. He found the shaft of Tarkin's cock with the Force and squeezed, tugging firmly and quickly. He knew this territory well, knew where to press and curl for best effect. He wouldn't take long.

Tarkin caught his breath, the immediate panic fading. Vader didn't know what conclusion he'd come to about what just happened, but it apparently wasn't one that stopped him from leaning back into the sensation, back into enjoyment, which was all Vader needed from him just now.

Vader had noticed that Tarkin often held back at the end of the scene, trying to make himself last as long as possible. That was not unusual with men. With Tarkin it became a perverse miniature battle of its own, something he did as a tease, because he knew how Vader's pleasure depended on his. But this, at least, was a battle Vader always won.

"You should not have come here," Vader repeated, with a cold anger he did not have to feign. "But now you are mine."

And it was only a few short squeezes more before Tarkin's eyes rolled back, bringing both of them over the metaphorical edge.

Medically speaking, it wasn't Vader's orgasm, but it may as well have been. He felt it all, the intense wash of pleasure that quieted every other concern. The boneless, sleepy peace as it faded, as Vader stroked Tarkin all the way through it. Even Vader's true body relaxed, some of the day's anguish draining away.

Some was better than none.

He let go of Tarkin and started to disentangle his mind, returning to the state where he had one body only. Tarkin rolled slightly and sprawled out on the platform, and then immediately pushed himself up to sit.

"You may not ask me for aftercare," Vader said, because he saw Tarkin's mouth opening about to demand it and he was not prepared to have that argument again. "The scene is not over. Get up."

Tarkin pressed carefully up into a standing position. They hadn't gone as long or as intensely as they sometimes did, and he still seemed to be in reasonable control of his muscles. Vader's sense of Tarkin's emotions was fading slightly, but he radiated something like curiosity or concern, tinged with disappointment. He was obedient, for now, if only because that seemed the quickest way to find out what was happening.

"Dress yourself," Vader ordered. This wasn't like on a ship where he could just leave Tarkin in his quarters to clean up. They would have to at least get _indoors_ first.

Tarkin gave Vader a thoughtful glance, but he went to the spot where his clothes had been piled and briskly put them back on. The clothes weren't very much worse for wear. Tarkin had been sweating, though, and his belly and thighs were sticky with his own come. He'd just have to deal with that until he got to his guest room. Perhaps it would motivate him to keep the rest of this encounter short.

"There," Vader said as Tarkin stood straight and made final adjustments, slipping the puzzle pouch back into his pocket. "Now we are done."

"Well?" said Tarkin, raising his eyebrows.

Vader grudgingly extended a hand and laid it on Tarkin's shoulder. He usually used warmth, but that would have been quite redundant out here. Instead he produced a brief, illusory cooling sensation, like a spring breeze through Tarkin's thinning hair.

He tried to think of something to say, because Tarkin always wanted words even now. His usual platitudes felt inappropriate, impossible. He couldn't say, _you did well._ If Tarkin had done well, he wouldn't have come here. He wouldn't be in danger now.

He cast around for other options, and his mind stalled. He was just standing there, a hand on Tarkin's shoulder, breathing.

"I can tell something's troubling you," said Tarkin.

Right. Because Vader had suddenly thrown him across the room without provocation, and Vader only did that when he was upset.

"I was startled," Vader said, "by a small disturbance in the Force. It is nothing now."

Tarkin narrowed his eyes skeptically.

"I'd prefer if it was that," he said, "because I will not be impressed if you lie to me."

"You were late and presumptuous, but you did not fail to please me. My other emotions are not your concern. Do not pry."

Tarkin's gaze was still level and unimpressed, but he spoke lightly now. "I believe I neglected to mention, but aftercare can be designed to reassure the dominant partner, too. That's well within protocol and sometimes useful. If you-"

"Silence," said Vader. He withdrew his hand.

He could not tolerate the idea of Tarkin comforting him. _Pitying_ him. Particularly not about this.

Tarkin gave him a look which was correctly silent and extremely flat. Vader turned away.

"It is late," he said, "as a result of your delays. I will walk you to the lift and show you your floor. A servant will take you the rest of the way to your room for the night. We will not speak further until morning."

He strode off down the catwalk, under the open portcullis, into his fortress, and did not turn back. Vader had a long stride, but he heard Tarkin's footsteps briskly catching up behind him. In this tiniest of matters, for once, Tarkin obeyed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA because I am having paroxysms of guilt for not making this clear enough. This fic is canon-compliant! Tarkin is not actually going to die in this fic! What's happening is slightly subtler than that and will hopefully be clearer in chapter 4. Tarkin is also a smart cookie who is going to figure out at least some of what's going on even though Vader doesn't want him to; that will also be clearer in chapter 4. There will be more angst, though. Also this is a messy disaster of a fic and I don't know what I'm doing :D :D 
> 
> That bit with the Citadel is canon, by the way. Clone Wars, season 3, episodes 18-20. Prequel Hero Team goes to ridiculous lava prison planet (half-planet?) to spring out a captured Jedi and his officers, including Captain Tarkin. Tarkin is SUPER BITCHY and doesn't even say thank you for being rescued. He and Anakin dislike each other at first but, over the course of about 2.5 episodes, end up chatting away and openly admiring each other's ruthlessness (which makes Obi-Wan and Ahsoka a bit concerned). If you watch it with your shipping goggles on then it's pretty adorbs, really.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning routines at Fortress Vader are complicated, and both Vader and Tarkin spend the time working out how to get the visit back on a better footing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have altered the projected number of chapters. (Pray I do not alter it further.) I haven't actually changed much of my plan for what will happen, it's just that bits of the plan that I thought would go by quickly are taking THOUSANDS OF WORDS, uggh. Relatedly: Enjoy this chapter in which there is no sex because five thousand words happen before the characters are even in the same room again, UGH.
> 
> Also, ETA: I posted this with the wrong name for one of Vader's servants, because I was like, "I want it to be that guy who shows up for 5 seconds in Rogue One but I'm having trouble googling what his name is." So then I called him Hafri, which is just a random arbitrary name. A commenter informs me that this person's actual canon name is Vanée, so I've gone through and done a find and replace.

As soon as they got properly indoors, the temperature improved. Still on the warm side, but less oppressively hot, and less humid. The burnt-iron smell was lessened, too. The fortress's inside still _looked_ much like the outside, a forbidding mass of red-black stone and permasteel, but it felt more like a place which would be habitable for humans other than Vader.

There wasn't much in the entrance hall but a lift and a grandly ominous waiting area, though at least the waiting area had seats. A servant in an odd hooded cloak was waiting by the lift. Vader disappeared without a word into a side door, his cape billowing behind him, still deep in whatever emotional funk had possessed him today.

"Goodnight, Vader," Tarkin said sardonically in the vague direction of Vader's back.

The servant by the lift was already bowing politely to him. Tarkin recognized him as a man named Vanée, the same one he'd talked to over the comms while scheduling the visit and while keeping Vader's household apprised of his late arrival. He was an old man with a soft voice and downcast eyes. "This way, Grand Moff," he said. "I'll show you to your room, if you will."

"That would seem to be the only option," said Tarkin. "Lead on."

Vanée ushered him onto the lift and pressed a series of buttons. The doors closed, and there was the familiar soft lurch of moving up.

"There will be a comm link in your guest room, should you require anything during the night," said Vanée. "The sixth floor and the two above it are for guests' use, and as you're the only guest at present, you may explore as you wish. Please don't go anywhere else in the fortress without an escort."

"Sensible enough," said Tarkin. The lift was made of a dark gray metal and mostly opaque, and Tarkin stared at nothing pensively. "You're used to Vader's moods, I presume. Has anything specifically been bothering him today?"

"Well." Vanée adopted the carefully bland expression of servants everywhere, as the lift stopped at the sixth floor and opened onto a short corridor. The fortress's design tapered vertically to a point, and so the sixth floor was not overly large. Four identical doors to what looked like four sizeable sets of guest quarters, two on each side of the hall, and then a window looking out on more of the dreary lava landscape. "I couldn't say; he can certainly be difficult to predict. You're the first room on the left, here. Do you require anything further?"

"No, thank you, Vanée. That will be all."

The guest quarters were rather dark, but seemed comfortable enough. Tarkin strode through them in a hurry as soon as Vanée was gone and went to the fresher, stripping off his clothes and showering. The fresher was large and very clean, picked out in black marble and volcanic glass, and it allowed great quantities of real water. Soaps were provided which didn't smell like anything in particular, but which lathered up softly and pleasingly. Given that it was Mustafar, Tarkin had half-expected spaceship-style accommodations, with water carefully rationed even for high officials, but apparently not.

He stood in the water and wondered what it was he'd done wrong.

He'd been late, but that was no explanation. Work was what it was, and they'd both kept each other waiting plenty of times before. He'd intruded on Vader's home, but that was no explanation either. Vader had _invited_ him here.

He'd given Vader a gift.

Vader had seemed viscerally offended by the puzzle. He'd dropped it back into Tarkin's hands, not with the bored disdain of someone who didn't like puzzles, but with something more urgent. Like he'd touched a hot engine. He'd referred to it afterwards, part of that odd list of complaints that hadn't really quite made sense. Accused Tarkin of giving the gift to curry favor, or of naivete, or of... recklessness? It had all really been a bit disjointed.

Something had bothered Vader about the gift, then. Something that he hadn't wished to explain directly.

 _This is not Coruscant,_ he'd said. On Coruscant, if Tarkin was imposing on someone's hospitality for two days and three nights, a small gift of acknowledgement would have been essential. No matter if they were lovers, or family, or only a conveniently placed acquaintance. It was what was done.

But, of course, this was a date. And he'd picked something appropriate for a date. Why wouldn't he? The only real difference between an early, tentative dating gift and a more platonic one was that dating gifts could be customized a bit more. But he would have had to customize it regardless, because the standard gifts were food, drink, or flowers and all of those would have been useless here.

So: Vader did not want to be reminded that they were on a date.

Tarkin knew Vader had a romantic history. He was _nearly_ one hundred percent sure that Vader had been married once. The one time he'd mentioned that rumor to Vader's face, Vader had lashed out quite violently. Tarkin knew better than to bring it up again.

That fit the other facts. Tarkin couldn't be certain, but it was good enough for a working hypothesis.

Vader was afraid of his own feelings, or perhaps, of their consequences. Something catastrophic had clearly happened in his previous marriage. Now either gifts specifically were a trigger, or - more likely - any simple gesture of affection now disturbed him. And then he'd taken that fear out on Tarkin, because of course he had. He feared -

Tarkin went back over the words he remembered Vader saying.

He feared Tarkin not taking him seriously, perhaps.

He feared Tarkin being caught up in something he did not understand. Shadow, flame, all the aesthetic motifs of this ridiculous fortress. Vader's home. Vader himself, perhaps.

He feared Tarkin coming to harm.

Oh.

Well, that did present complications.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, toweling off. The towels were black, of course, with scarlet embroidery. Tarkin spent a great deal of time in the deliberately forbidding confines of Imperial command ships, and this fortress was too over-the-top even for him.

Here was one more thing that Tarkin suspected he'd done wrong: He had neglected his Theory Of Dealing With Vader. Not badly, but enough. Tarkin prided himself on being able to work with Vader properly on a mission, to assert himself and stay in control while maintaining a wary respect. It was an art few of the generals and admirals who worked with Vader understood, which was why they died so often.

In these unfamiliar surroundings, which were so clearly Vader's domain, Tarkin had become slightly less assertive than he should have been. He had been unsure of protocol. He had decided to follow Vader's lead, and then of course things had gone off the rails, because Vader was a seething pile of aggression who would run right over anybody who let him.

Vader's trauma, whatever it was, had nothing to do with Tarkin. Tarkin had not _caused_ what went wrong tonight. But if he was to have any hope of steering things back the way he wanted, he would need to be firmer.

If he wanted Vader to trust that Tarkin was not some endangered damsel, that he did in fact know what he was doing here, then he would have to act like it.

He put on a pair of slippers and padded back out into the bedroom.

The room had a high ceiling, and long walls in that pattern of tortured, vertically striated reddish stone which was pervasive here. It had a picture window which looked out onto an endless expanse of black ground and orange lava. The furniture seemed minimal, dwarfed by the room's height and by the improbable landscape, but all the usual necessities were accounted for. A double bed with black sheets. A modest desk, in what appeared to be dark wood, with a communicator panel, including a prominent button that would apparently summon a servant. A few hard, elegant chairs and a few tall lamps. A closet and a dresser, and a slender full-length mirror near the window. It seemed designed precisely to make a visiting official feel small, while still providing everything that such a person would reasonably need.

Tarkin chose  _not_ to feel small.

He turned on a couple of lamps and set the window to be opaque. He moved his folded clothes from his suitcase to the dresser, and the ones that he'd just removed to another drawer for later cleaning, and set the puzzle pouch atop the dresser. Then he folded himself in under the covers, turned off the lamps, and went, with some difficulty, to sleep.

*

Vader did not sleep especially well. He had trouble quieting his mind. He was awakened at one point by a nightmare, but it wasn't the death-vision he'd feared. Just a run-of-the-mill bad dream. After that, he slept more soundly until morning.

On ships, when he was on some mission lasting more than a day, Vader slept in a meditation chamber. The carefully filtered, warmed, and pressurized air in such a chamber allowed him to remove some of the heaviest parts of his suit without dying. That, combined with a small dose of the appropriate neurotransmitters, was enough to allow sleep without making himself too vulnerable. If anything should suddenly go wrong in space, he would have to emerge dressed and ready to deal with the problem in only a few minutes, just like an able-bodied officer.

At home, though, Vader could relax a bit more. On nights that Vader spent in his fortress, he removed his suit entirely - though that was a laborious process - and slept suspended in a specially designed bacta tank. He liked this much better than sleeping on a ship. The floating feeling was soothing, and in bacta, his body hurt less. According to his medical team, it was also better for him. Regular bacta treatments helped to repair any everyday problems incurred in the line of duty, and they helped prevent long-term degeneration. This was a real risk for bodies as damaged as Vader's, which were known to spontaneously decide that enough was enough and shut everything down. His suit could also be taken for cleaning and maintenance while he was out of it. The official recommendation was at least three full nights in the tank per week, and preferably more, but, work being what it was, that wasn't always possible.

So when he woke to the sound of a servant entering, that was where he was. Floating and comfortable, or as comfortable as Vader ever got.

The tank was lit so that, when full, it would allow only limited visibility. Vader could see out in a blurred way, but someone on the outside would see only the vaguest silhouette. Vader didn't like people being able to stare at him while he slept, even guards. He could feel more than see that the figure who knelt before him was, in fact, Vanée - the most senior of his house servants and, therefore, under most circumstances, the only house servant permitted to wake him. He could also feel the two Royal Guards stationed next to him for their night watch. Vader didn't especially care for Royal Guards, but Palpatine had insisted, and there was a logic to it. Naked in his tank, without his suit or his prosthetics, even Vader was somewhat vulnerable.

Vader's hearing was shit without the suit, but Vanée knew how to pitch his voice so that it carried into the tank's sound receptors, which transmitted his words to a bacta-resistant headphone strapped to Vader's skull.  


"My lord," he said, "your visitor is awake and awaits your convenience."

The protocols of Fortress Vader were fairly simple, and they mostly involved staying the hell out of Vader's way when not needed, but Vader enjoyed their subtleties. When someone was summoned here for official business, the house servants would announce them to Vader with their appropriate title. But submissives were only "your visitor" - regardless of what fleets or districts or portions of the Senate they might command.

He also enjoyed his house servants' uniform, though the sight of it through the bacta was blurry. It was one of the few aspects of the fortress he'd been allowed to decide on for himself. Somber hooded cloaks were in keeping with Sith tradition. They also made all the house servants look like miniature Palpatines, which meant that watching them kneel and genuflect to Vader was _hilarious._

Vader considered his plan for the morning.

Sleep had improved him as it often did, and some of last night's fit of rage had drained away. He was still unhappy - Vader was usually unhappy - but he was no longer itching to hurt or kill someone.

Having slept on it, he knew that this visit wasn't off to a good start, and that was mostly Vader's fault. He'd let himself get into a mood. Palpatine had meddled, and that was Palpatine's fault, but taking it out on Tarkin would only compound the harm. Tarkin had blithely presented a gift, and Vader had gotten upset _because_ it was blithe, because it was clear Tarkin had no idea what Palpatine planned. But taking that out on Tarkin wouldn't help, either, unless he wanted to convince Tarkin that it was best not to do anything nice for Vader ever again.

He had wanted a good visit, an enjoyable visit, and maybe he wasn't going to get that, but at least he could avoid driving Tarkin actively away.

"I will dress and rise as promptly as I can," Vader said into his breath mask. "Ensure that he is cared for in the meantime."

The breath mask Vader used in the bacta tank was different from the one in his suit. He didn't like its voice modulator as much as the other one. His words came out tinny. Vanée was used to it, though, and merely made an additional bow of acknowledgement before exiting.

Vader dismissed the Red Guards, then tongued a small switch inside his mask which changed modes from the voice modulator to a direct, private line. This led to M4-R3K, Vader's personal medical droid.

"Em-four," he subvocalized.

"Yes, Lord Vader," said a cheerful, feminine electronic voice into his headphone.

"Prepare my suit. I wish to be up quickly today."

"Absolutely, Lord Vader. Be right there."

It was possible for Vader to lie still and be dressed by impersonal machine arms, like a speeder being assembled on a factory floor. That was how Palpatine had designed the process at first, but Vader hated it. It was bearable if it was just a meditation chamber, which took off a few of the heaviest plates and left the rest alone. But the full process made him panic. Flashing back to that first day, when he'd thrashed in a gulf of agony, not understanding what was happening to him, as the mask descended.

After a few false starts and several incidents of expensive equipment breaking, Palpatine had given Vader permission to be dressed by his servants. But this was disagreeable in a different way. Humans could be gentle, but even the best-trained humans looked at Vader's scarred body with pity and disgust. It didn't matter how good their bedside manners or their poker faces. Vader could _feel_ it. He had no intention of having to feel it for an hour of dressing and another hour of undressing, every single damn day he spent at home.

So in his off hours, during those early years, Vader had built himself a droid.

M4-R3K was, in most respects, a standard 2-1B-type medical droid built from a kit. Vader was only a hobbyist when it came to droid-building, but he'd made modifications where he saw fit. She was stronger and sturdier than a typical 2-1B, and programmed to specialize in Vader's daily needs, though in a pinch she could provide competent generalist care for anyone at the fortress. She was mildly eccentric, as Vader's droids tended to be, but that helped more than it hurt.

"I don't normally see you in this much hurry," she observed now as she carefully disconnected some sets of tubes and lines, reconnected others. "Didn't even meditate first. You must like this one."

M4 was allowed to speak more freely than any of Vader's other servants. It was frequently annoying, but she didn't require response, and the sound gave him something to focus on besides the monotonous discomfort of the procedure itself.

He had other things to think about today, though. He half-listened to her chatter and half-ruminated, not quite meditating, on his current problem.

Mustafar was strong with the Dark Side of the Force. In full meditation, in his tank or his first-floor chamber, Vader could feel the planet's raging core as if it was a part of him. The cold uncaring vacuum above. His conscious mind, suspended between, in a kind of controlled clarity. He could commune with the Force directly from there, without Palpatine in the way.

He was too impatient to meditate about his problems today. That could take all morning. But he could feel the lava river below him, in the same background way as he felt his servants and Tarkin, all the nearby natural things going around their business. He knew what the lava river thought of all this. The Dark Side had no time for Vader's petty fears. The Dark Side _was_ fear, rage and hate, and the will to harness all of them for victory.

Vader didn't see a way to victory here. Tarkin was going to be harmed, and it was Vader's fault.

So let him be harmed, the Dark Side would say. Why should you care?

He did not know what to _do_ until then. Vader could not lie effectively to Tarkin, and he could not tell the truth. He could not send Tarkin away, and he could not enjoy himself while Tarkin was here. He would be agitated, angry and afraid, the whole time.

M4, busy at work above him, had lowered her voice into a gossipy tone. "I hope you don't mind, but I did catch a glimpse of your friend on the security feeds when he was on his way to breakfast. Nothing private, don't worry. He's a little old for you, isn't he? Distinguished, though. I like how he carries himself. Military?"

"We met at work," said Vader. Of course M4 could have found out Tarkin's name and rank and title just by perusing the communication logs, as the human servants had done, but M4 showed no sign whatsoever of actually caring.

"Ooh, that could get complex. Okay, Lord Vader, you're going to feel a pinch; this is the line near your kidney that wasn't quite behaving yesterday. Ready?"

He nodded. She did something that pinched. He definitely did not make a sound or a face. He was a Sith Lord, after all.

M4 looked down critically at her handiwork. "I've really got to replace that at some point."

It went on like that. Getting Vader dressed in the morning required, first, a long and finicky transfer of his life support from the system in the bacta tank to the system in the suit. The worst part was the breath mask. No matter how quickly and smoothly M4 made the transfer, and how well-pressurized the room, there was always that one choking moment between one mask and the other.

After that, his prosthetic limbs had to be reattached, which was less unpleasant but required just as much care. And finally there was the suit proper, the sturdy structure that would keep out contaminants and hold everything in place through whatever variations on running or leaping or fighting or falling that Vader might need to perform.

Vader thought about the other thing, at the end of the scene, that had frightened him last night. The half-prophecy he'd blurted out, almost a death-vision.

Vader sometimes foresaw people's deaths. It was one of his Force abilities. He didn't like it much. He would have liked it more if it was people he hated dying in some painful way, or nameless enemies falling easily before him. Those would be good deaths. But, because the Force had a perverse sense of humor, it was usually the other kind. It was usually people he liked.

Sometimes he saw the deaths vividly. Sometimes only a confusing flash. Sometimes he saw nothing, but just _knew_. Sometimes the deaths seemed terrifyingly imminent, but sometimes they were far in the future: a young woman grown old and dying of cancer, a thirty-year-old shot by his grandson. Sometimes there was no logic to it at all.

When it happened with a submissive, it was usually a sign that Vader was getting too attached, and he found some excuse not to play with them as often as before. It wasn't that he cared. Vader was death incarnate, he killed people all the time,  _obviously_ he didn't care, that would be silly. He just didn't want to deal with this bullshit in his sex life, was all.

But he hadn't had a vision after all, with Tarkin. Nothing so concrete. Just a fact that was now in his head, as plain as something he'd seen or touched.

Tarkin was going to die, one day, of hubris. The same self-possessed recklessness that led him to Vader, the desire to face and master the most absurdly deadly thing in the room. He would choose the wrong thing to try to master one day. Something would go wrong.

He would see the danger coming. He would be warned. He would be offered a chance to escape, and he would scornfully refuse.

 _Evacuate? In our moment of triumph?_ said some faint echo at the back of his mind.

That was all. Vader didn't know what exactly the danger would be, or when, or anything else. Palpatine seemed to know how to make useful plans out of things he foresaw, but Vader had never managed that trick. There had been a time, much younger and more naive, when he'd tried to prevent the deaths he saw. It... hadn't worked well.

_You cannot save anyone. Not from yourself._

"Hm," said M4. She'd assembled everything but the suit proper and, in keeping with Vader's command, she'd done it slightly faster than usual. She cast a critical eye over the blinking panel which would fit over his abdomen when the suit was assembled, but which lay vaguely connected at the side for now. "Your vitals are good, Lord Vader, but pulse and blood pressure are just a smidge high. Nervous?"

"You will make no further inquiries as to my mental state," said Vader.

"Oh, it's like that, is it," said M4. She sounded amused, although it could be hard to tell for sure with droids. One thing Vader and M4 had in common was that neither one was physiologically capable of laughter. "As you wish. You'll do fine, Lord Vader. All your personal visitors like you. Just don't over-strain yourself. You do remember what happened with that Zabrak girl."

"Your concern is noted, Em-four."

Palpatine had spoken truly, at least. Tarkin wasn't going to die on this visit. Whatever happened here, Tarkin would not be warned - that was the whole point. So this visit, by definition, couldn't be the thing that killed him.

But that didn't mean Vader wasn't leading Tarkin to his death. Tarkin was attracted to deadly things, and Vader was one. In return for his attention he got pleasure. Vader rewarded him for behaving in exactly the way that would harm him most.

And he couldn't stop, at least not at the moment, because that would be a warning.

He could not make any damn part of this problem go away. Except for the one tiny part that was actually his fault. He'd treated Tarkin badly. He could fix _that,_ at least.

"There you go," M4 said at last, clicking the last bit of helmet into place. She patted her handiwork with a self-satisfied air. "All done and looking good, Lord Vader. Go get 'em."

*

Tarkin woke at what his datapad informed him was a reasonable time in the morning. It was hard to tell, even when he padded to the window and selected a setting he could actually look out of. Mustafar was reddish and cloudy and dim and had entirely too much lava on its surface, the same as when he'd arrived.

He washed his face and dressed himself. Today's clothes were similar to what he'd worn when he arrived. The tunic was a slightly different cut, and in a reddish-gray color, which matched nicely with most of the rest of the decor.

Satisfied that he looked appropriate, he pressed the button by the communicator panel.

Vanée appeared in hologram form immediately.

"Good morning, Grand Moff," he said, in the same soft, careful voice Tarkin remembered from last night. "Shall I inform Lord Vader that you are awake?"

"If you would. I'll also require breakfast."

"Of course. In your room, or the dining hall?"

Tarkin was moderately surprised that Vader's fortress had a dining hall. For those rare occasions when several important people were here at once, he supposed. He had a sudden mental picture of three grand generals sitting together with a hapless civilian submissive who had very bad timing, and suppressed a chuckle. It would never happen - assuming that the staff who handled Vader's home schedule were at least _mildly_ competent - but it amused him.

"The dining hall," he decided. He hadn't had a chance yet to look around, as Vanée had told him he could, but he may as well see what the other rooms here were like. Something about this fortress's ostentatious darkness made him curious.

"Thank you, Grand Moff. Giana will be there in a moment to escort you."

The hologram winked out, and Tarkin had time to check that his collar was properly arranged and that he had his datapad with him, before a low chime announced a visitor at the door. He opened it, and another servant stood there another of those hooded robes, this one female and nearly as wizened as Vanée. She bowed, and her eyes remained downcast even as she straightened.

"This way, Grand Moff," she said.

He followed her, bemused. The dining hall was on the seventh floor, one level above Tarkin's room, but the route was otherwise straightforward. He wondered how Vader chose house servants, and what sort of training they received, and what the salary and benefits were like, and also the life expectancy. He wondered if Vader intentionally chose them for the ability to look mousy and gloomy in those robes, or if that was just the effect this fortress had on people. Tarkin preferred an air of crisp competence in his own servants, but there was no accounting for taste.

The door to the dining hall slid open to reveal a table in what appeared to be expensive, jet-black wood, shot through with crimson veins. Big enough for perhaps four, five people to sit around. It was already set for one, with a set of delicate red-and-white dishes that stood out against the table below them, and a third servant - a thin man in perhaps his fifties - was already laying out food. The rest of the decor was predictably, grandly dark.

Giana crept away, while the third servant finished with the food and pulled out Tarkin's chair.

"Caf, sir?" he asked.

Tarkin sat. For the home of a man who never ate or drank anything, the service here seemed surprisingly good. But, of course, while Vader's personal visitors might be anyone, his official ones would include grand generals, admirals, Outer Rim crime lords, advisors to the Emperor. Probably the Emperor himself at times. People, like Tarkin, who were accustomed to the best. "Yes, if you would. What's your name?"

The servant poured out a mug of black, rich caf from a red-and-white carafe, and set out cups of cream and sweetener beside it, which Tarkin ignored. "Kal, sir. Do you require anything else this morning?"

"No, thank you. That will be all."

No sooner had Kal left then the door swished open again, and Vanée stepped inside with an elaborate, apologetic bow. Vanée was the best of them at bowing, Tarkin thought absently, and also seemed to be the senior house servant here. Perhaps there was a causal connection.

"Lord Vader will see you in approximately an hour, Grand Moff," said Vanée.

The delay was a mild surprise, but it shouldn't have been. Tarkin didn't know what Vader's morning routine was here, but he knew it would be more elaborate than getting into and out of a meditation chamber, and would likely involve something private and medical. He couldn't tell if an hour was faster or slower than necessary, and the announcement seemed deliberately phrased to obscure that information.

"Thank you, Vanée. Should I be anywhere in particular?"

"If you'd like to remain here, Grand Moff, I'm sure that will do."

With Vanée gone, Tarkin turned his attention to his food. He was passingly familiar with the logistics of food supply, and on a world like Mustafar without any arable land, obtaining fresh food ought to be nearly as difficult as in space. But the plate laid out for him showed no sign of ever having been canned or freeze-dried or otherwise cheaply preserved. There was sweet flatbread still warm from the oven, and a pile of varicolored fruit that tasted cold and fresh, along with small crisp portions of perfectly grilled meat and a tall glass of ice water. The fruit was the really impressive part - perhaps Mustafar had greenhouses somewhere? - but all of it would have been difficult to obtain and prepare correctly.

He took his time eating. Kal flitted in and out of the room, always quiet in his dark robe, refilling his water and his caf. When Tarkin was done, he sat back and read files on his datapad while Kal cleared the table. He knew better than to connect to any non-emergency network; his staff back on Coruscant would see it and attempt to drag him back into some long, involved work task. But he'd saved a local copy of the information he'd received before leaving, and he let himself begin to go over that in more detail.

He heard Vader's footsteps and breath before he saw him, and he calmly put the datapad away. It had been less than an hour, though not enough less to comment on. A second later, the door swished open again. Vader was there, darkly resplendent as always.

"Good morning, Vader," he said.

Vader inclined his helmet slightly. "You are well?"

"Quite well. Yourself?"

He felt himself drawing up from the more relaxed position in which he'd been reading. This was the part where he would need to be assertive. Vader needed to treat him like an actual guest and not some rude, wayward servant.

There was a pause.

"I apologize," said Vader, "for my brusqueness last night."

This was so startling to Tarkin that he nearly lost his train of thought. Vader had _never_ apologized for anything, ever. Not social gaffes, not failed or delayed missions, not even the casual murder of officers Tarkin still had a use for.

If he was going to apologize for _this,_ then that meant several things. He was aware there was a problem - although, with Vader's ability to read minds, surely that one went without saying. He cared very much about the problem being solved, even at the expense of some of his usual facade. Tarkin had suspected that Vader had more feelings than he wanted to admit, but this was a confirmation that surprised even him.

"Do you?" he said. He wanted to know just what sort of apology this was before he chose a response. There was an instinct, especially when startled, to simply wave apologies away, but that would not have been useful.

"I agreed to this visit," said Vader, "intending for you to enjoy it. So there is no need to punish you for having arrived. I was thrown off balance by matters that do not concern you and thus behaved poorly. It will not reoccur."

Well, Tarkin supposed, there were the three classic elements of an apology. An expression of regret, a description of what had gone wrong, and a promise to do better. And he'd hardly even needed prompting. Maybe things were better than Tarkin had thought.

Though there was that curious phrasing. _Intending for you to enjoy it._ Was Vader not meant to enjoy the visit as well? Tarkin did sometimes make social impositions on people just to watch them squirm, but he hadn't meant for his date with Vader to be one of those things. Vader usually said that Tarkin pleased him; he often stressed that their encounters were for his own enjoyment, and that Tarkin's was a byproduct. He'd usually been quick to initiate their encounters and to promise future ones. Vader was an assertive person. Surely he wouldn't have agreed to this visit if it wasn't an idea he liked.

But it was possible that, whatever his original intent, Vader had stopped enjoying himself last night.

It fit with his curt behavior, and it fit the rest of the facts. Vader was afraid. He either felt more for Tarkin than he wanted to, or he feared that Tarkin felt more than intended, or maybe both; he did not trust those feelings. He worried - with some precedent, Tarkin suspected - that Tarkin would be harmed. Very possibly he worried that, in some fit of Vaderishness, he would harm Tarkin himself. That would be enough to sour anyone's mood.

Tarkin would have to navigate this carefully. He'd tried offering comfort last night, in the most neutral, formal, unromantic terms that he could, and he'd been firmly rebuffed. If he still wanted to reassure Vader, he'd have to come at it from the side, and slowly. Vader would need not to realize quite what he was doing. And he could not neglect the rest of his Theory Of Dealing With Vader while doing it. He'd need to see that Vader lived up to his apology.

He could do that, he thought. He'd had more challenging tasks.

"Thank you," he said. "Apology accepted. Did you have anything planned for this morning, or shall we simply wander around the fortress together?"

"Have you been enjoying the fortress?" Vader asked, successfully diverted.

"It's very..." Tarkin groped for a polite word. "Imposing. I am curious how you live here. Vanée informs me that the sixth through eighth floors are already mine to explore, but I'd enjoy being shown around."

That would do, he thought. A neutral activity. Something that wasn't sex, wasn't dangerous, and didn't involve anyone having feelings for anyone. Just Vader showing off a property he presumably liked having, and Tarkin learning more about something that interested him.

"As you wish," said Vader. He turned, and Tarkin rose to follow him through the strange corridors of his strange home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...In the first draft, this was even longer, because Vader DID stop to meditate. I have spared you from a fate involving a lot of purple prose about lava and the Dark Side of the Force, I guess.
> 
> I hope you are still enjoying my confusing mishmash trashship story. Every comment on this fic makes me squee, seriously. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While working out exactly what is going on with Vader and how to fix it, Tarkin decides to play some mind games of his own.

Each floor of Fortress Vader, in ascending order, was progressively smaller. Floor seven's hallway divided it neatly in two: the dining hall to one side, with an auxiliary lift so the servants could bring food up and used dishes down to wherever the kitchens were. On the other side of floor seven was a meeting room, about the dining hall's size and fitted out for the same number of people. Another jet-black, crimson-veined table stood in the center of the room, set round with a slightly more comfortable set of chairs, and with a top-of-the-line holoprojector set into its surface.

Tarkin was faintly jealous. He'd worked with Vader on and off for many years, and he was one of the Empire's highest officials. He'd been an admiral before Vader was Vader, and he'd had the Emperor's favor even longer than that. Yet somehow, until he started _sleeping_ with Vader, he'd never been invited here.

"Do you have meetings here often?" he asked.

"Rarely," said Vader. "Only when great secrecy is needed, or when there is need for the fortress's psychological effect."

Tarkin looked out the window in irritation. Of course there was a window, a nice large one; it wouldn't have been a proper lava fortress without a good view of the lava fields from every single room.

Tarkin wanted to ask: what was it like to actually _live_ here, day in and day out? He hadn't seen Vader's own quarters, and perhaps they were different, but he couldn't imagine being surrounded by this constantly. It clearly meant something to Vader, beyond just the ability to intimidate guests, but Tarkin wasn't sure he understood _what._  Something to do with the Dark Side. Vader worshiped the Dark Side of the Force, drew power from its gloom and hostility, and Tarkin could not argue with the results.

Tarkin had once assumed that Vader was like a Jedi but better, freed from the old Jedi Order's limitations. More ruthless, more flexible, more effective. But the more he got to know Vader, the more it became clear that there was something qualitatively different. Vader seemed to get power, not merely by indulging his more disagreeable side, but by fixating on it to the exclusion of all else. Tarkin wanted to know what that did to him. What other limitations that way of looking at things entailed. There was something about this fortress, in that vein, that bothered Tarkin, some question he had yet to coherently formulate.

But this wasn't the time to probe into Vader's emotions.

Instead he said: "Letting the local landscape do all the work for you, you mean."

"Not _all_ the work. But it is wise to use every tool at one's disposal."

"Does all the lava actually help you in strategy meetings, or does it only distract people?"

"That depends on the visitor." A strand of amusement entered Vader's tone. "It seemed to work on you."

"I mean for actual _business,_ Vader."

He remembered being placed strategically so he could stare down at the lava river, last night, while Vader fucked him. He hadn't _liked_ it, exactly. It had made him uncomfortable in that particular way which could be transmuted, through kink, into pleasure. He did enjoy the way Vader toyed with his fears.

"Earlier this year," said Vader, "I was tasked with recovering certain religious artifacts from disputed territory in the Outer Rim, and a general was assigned to assist me. He was leery; he felt that the group possessing the artifacts had a valid legal claim. I wished to dispose of him and do the mission alone, but the Emperor insisted I meet with him here instead. It turned out that the general hailed from an ice world. When on the verge of heatstroke and separated from his guard, he suddenly became amenable to my demands. We recovered the artifacts promptly."

Tarkin smiled slightly. "Which general?"

Vader said a name after a slight pause, as if it had taken him a moment to recall. Tarkin recognized it: an officer Palpatine liked, but not one Tarkin had gotten to know well. He made a mental note in case they worked together in the future.

"Did I tell you about the dinner I hosted last week?" Tarkin asked. "There was a minor skirmish with Rebels in my district. Nothing serious, or I'd have called you to help. They'd attempted to hijack a civilian yacht that belonged to an undercover Imperial agent; they'd been led to believe that she was in possession of security codes they desired. We chased them off, killed a few, and then I had the yacht impounded. It had a very distinctive emblem directly over the loading ramp - custom work, I believe. I returned to Coruscant and invited several suspected Rebel sympathizers in the Senate to dine. I used the plate with the emblem as a centerpiece. One of the senators from Taris spent the whole meal unaccountably pale and sweating; I can't imagine why. My intelligence staff are now monitoring his movements and looking for plausible minor charges we could use to bring him in. I'll have him soon."

Vader's head tilted very slightly in the helmet. "You could have brought him in immediately, if you had the strength, instead of toying with him. But I understand the urge. To be feared is pleasant."

Tarkin pressed a knuckle to his lips thoughtfully. He did not, in fact, have the political strength to make random arrests of senators without more concrete evidence - not without causing an uproar. Civilians, yes, usually, but not senators. This was the sort of subtlety that tended to escape Vader, which was why Vader didn't do politics. He and Palpatine were working towards a world where they could openly do anything they liked to whomever they pleased, but alas, not quite yet.

"Fear is the only way any power structure holds itself up, in the end. It's necessary. And it is  _so_ satisfying when they squirm."

"Agreed."

Tarkin looked sideways at Vader, mischievous. "Does it bother you that I don't? Squirm, I mean."

Vader gave what appeared, through the helmet, to be a sideways look back. "But you do."

"I do not."

"You hide it well. But you flinch on the inside. In your mind."

"That doesn't count."

"It does to me."

Tarkin turned his attention back out the window, silently conceding the point. "I always wondered. What does the world look like when no one can hide anything from you?"

Faces would mean nothing, he suspected, if one had senses like Vader's. All the little tells Tarkin had learned to observe, irrelevant. Society would become a thing to glide through by feel, or to ignore until one's instincts pointed out the part that mattered.

When Tarkin thought of it that way, it sounded like losing something as much as gaining it. Vader wasn't a subtle person. He could catch on to currents of emotion, or of fate, that others weren't equipped to see. But what else in an everyday encounter did he miss, simply because he didn't think he needed to attend to the details?

"It is difficult to hide feelings from me," said Vader. "But it can be done with the right skills. Thoughts, specifics, are often less apparent. Otherwise all our interrogations would be shorter. You are a perceptive person in your own ways. It is not very different, I think. Only more visceral. Though I wonder. Is there something you wish to hide from me?"

He said that last bit playfully, not a real accusation. Though Tarkin was on high alert at the moment for anything resembling one; he still wasn't sure he had the full picture of what was bothering Vader. He had a good working theory of the underlying problem, but he needed to figure out its seams, the cracks where Tarkin could work his way in and subtly steer things better.

"I've been hiding that I disagree with your decor," Tarkin said, equally lightly. "And with your choice of servants' uniforms. And your real estate decisions generally. I must admit I have a hard time taking this fortress seriously."

"That is untrue. You criticize to hide your discomfort. Something troubles you even now. I can feel it."

Oh, dear. This could get circular very quickly. Vader troubled because Tarkin was troubled because Vader was troubled. Best to head that line of inquiry off. "I did inform you that I can't abide lava."

Vader took a languid, predatory step towards him. "And as you say, it is satisfying when you squirm."

Oh, good, so he wasn't troubled about Tarkin being troubled after all. Just toying with him more. "Is that why you refused my offer about the beach house? You just wanted me to be as uncomfortable as possible all day."

Vader made a casual movement of his hand. A teasing Force-caress across Tarkin's torso, through his clothes. It felt good. "You and I both enjoy your discomfort. Or should I remind you how that feels?"

Tarkin quirked his eyebrows, amused. "I thought you were supposed to be giving me a tour. We haven't even made it past the first room."

He didn't mind, really. Sex with Vader felt good, and he'd made his way here hoping for a lot of it. But it occurred to him that Vader had aggressively kept going last night even though his mood was spoiled. Perhaps he had enjoyed himself despite his mood;perhaps beating Tarkin to the ground and fucking him roughly had been a useful way to blow off steam. But the other plausible interpretation was worse. Perhaps something had possessed Vader - although Tarkin didn't know quite _what_ \- to make him think that sex was required of him. That he had to pretend to want and enjoy it, even when he did not. Because of some principle, perhaps? His ego as a dominant? Or because he didn't want Tarkin to know he felt distress?

Tarkin couldn't read minds the way Vader could, and he already knew that asking Vader directly would not be productive. If Vader insisted on doing things he didn't like, absent pressure from Tarkin, then that wasn't Tarkin's fault. But it didn't mean Tarkin shouldn't employ his due diligence.

Vader loomed over him. "Do not play coy. You know you are here for only one thing."

Tarkin raised his eyebrows further. "Your submissives must skew young if they all come over for nothing but sex. I'm afraid I can't personally go more than, say, twice a day. We'll have to find some other way to entertain each other the rest of the time."

"I need not entertain you. I could keep you in your room, alone, for the full two days. I could enter without warning to make use of you when I wished, and then leave you again to pine. A toy returned to its shelf."

"Well, you could, I suppose. But being caged is not my kink. I require some human interaction. Otherwise I would make things very irritating, and neither of us would enjoy it."

Vader caressed him again, up the exposed skin of his throat, speculatively. "You do irritate me."

"Yet you're practically throwing yourself at me while you say so."

"Perhaps I am unused to being made to wait."

Tarkin smiled to himself, because it had just occurred to him that this was quite true. One of the dozens of little niceties that none of Vader's other submissives dared to require of him. He hadn't had a chance yet to detect or correct that one, not out in space where they were hurried by necessity.

That meant he could now accomplish two things at once.

He raised his chin. "Show me the eighth floor first, then. I demand to at least get familiar with the guest area."

Vader paused, but he was just being pettish now.

"As you wish," he said, and turned to stride back to the lift.

Tarkin followed him, and reflected on what he'd learned. He'd managed to rile Vader up just a little bit and then calm him at least partway back down. Everything seemed consistent with the less-upsetting of Tarkin's two theories. The things that distressed Vader weren't sexual; sex was what he returned to when he wanted a steadier footing. That was all right, then.

The lift opened, and they stepped out onto the eighth and smallest floor, which was all one multipurpose room with a panoramic view of the crags around them, broken only by periodic strips of external wall and by the lift itself, with a supply closet at its side. Small high tables in that familiar dark, red-veined wood were set at intervals around the room's edge, as if the imaginary officials from the meeting room were meant to convene here for a reception. Tarkin could picture it, a small clump of people in Imperial uniforms awkwardly eating hors d'oeuvres or drinking, trying to pretend to each other that they weren't trapped in the middle of a lava field with someone who might kill them all.

"What do you use this room for?"

"Socializing," said Vader, "if there is more than one official guest. Discussions and activities for which the meeting room is not suitable. Or other uses. Sometimes a guest comes up to enjoy the view." He turned towards Tarkin, bored already; or maybe just impatient. "You asked to see the guest floors before I used you. You've seen the bedrooms already, so this is all of it."

Tarkin regarded him with amusement. Vader was _so_ unsubtle that it was almost endearing, like watching a child crash around in a sandbox. "Indulge my curiosity, though. What's on all the other floors?"

"Floors three through five are the servants' domain. Their quarters, and the Royal Guards' quarters, kitchens, laundry, storage. I would not have brought you to those floors. The servants and I have an agreement; they do not bother me when not needed, and I do not enter their areas unless I suspect wrongdoing."

Tarkin frowned slightly. That was not a typical arrangement, but it was not unheard of, and it made sense. If servants in a Coruscant household needed a breather, they could usually escape into the city on some errand. On a more rural planet, there were ways to busy oneself outdoors. But on Mustafar there was nowhere to go. They'd need their own small refuge, particularly from an employer like Vader.

Of course, that rider - _unless I suspect wrongdoing_ \- would make it even more terrifying when Vader did barge in. Tarkin almost wanted to arrange that so he could see the looks on their faces. But that would have been counterproductive, if he didn't have some purpose in mind or some provocation to respond to. It rarely paid off to antagonize the people who made one's food and changed one's bedding.

"And floor two?"

"Floor two houses my personal quarters. I sleep there and attend to my medical needs. Guests are never invited. You said you wanted to see the guest floors, Tarkin, not that I would have to recite my entire fortress's layout."

"Having to wait makes you uncomfortable," Tarkin said, casually throwing Vader's own logic back at him. "So why wouldn't I?"

It wasn't just that, of course; he was _teaching_ Vader to wait. A necessary skill. He could have explicitly said so, but it was more fun this way.

"Floor one is the entrance hall," said Vader, "which you saw."

"Oh, but I saw you go into a side room."

Vader gestured as if brushing the question away. "I could take you here and now whether you agreed to it or not."

"But you will not. Besides, it's much more fun when we work together. What's on floor one?"

It was like training an akk dog, he thought. It would show its teeth, it would growl, but deep down it wanted direction. All one had to do was stand firm.

"The north wing," said Vader, "houses other personal rooms of mine. A training area, a meditation chamber. The south wing is a workshop and hangar. Are you _entirely_ done?"

Tarkin was pushing his luck, now, but anything worth doing was worth doing thoroughly. Otherwise Vader would learn that he'd cut corners when pushed, and that would not do. "I saw other lift buttons below the one for the first floor. So you have a basement, clearly."

"Do not toy with me."

"I thought you said I _was_ a toy." Tarkin raised an open hand in mock conciliation. "If I'm prising in on anything that's meant to be confidential, I do apologize, but if that's the case then my next question would be why your lift is so poorly designed."

"The lower levels have a geothermal power generator and other mechanical necessities. They are _boring._ That is all the floors. The tour is _finished._ "

Tarkin brought a hand down in front of him, one finger raised. This was his favorite part. "Just one more thing, Vader. Only a single one more, and then you'll have me. This one isn't about the fortress. I simply need you to tell me aloud what you want."

Tarkin was sure he already knew. But he needed this one last bit of assurance. That Vader was pursuing him out of real desire, and not because he was full of aggression he didn't know what else to do with. And this was the time to ask. One more demand in a rhythm of playful demands, divorced from the kind of concern that would have put Vader's guard up, something he wouldn't have to think about too hard.

Vader responded with the same impatience as before. "I have made that very clear."

"But you know how badly I need words."

"I want to fuck you, Tarkin. Now. I wish to use you and hurt you and make you come for me. The same thing we have been doing every time we've met. You are denying me, and I _want_ it."

He was leaning in; his voice had risen nearly to a whine. He'd said it plainly, without the little digs he made when he was angry, without reminding Tarkin that he was a toy or a fool or that he should not be here. Good enough.

Tarkin let his eyes flutter shut a moment, savoring the words. And the small victory.

"Good," he said. "Take it, then."

He felt the Force-vise of Vader's grasp close around him instantly, lifting him an inch in the air. The crawl of sensation from head to toe as Vader focused in on him, faster than normal. Oh, he _was_ excited. Impatience wasn't really an _admirable_ trait, but one didn't need senses like Vader's to enjoy being panted after.

Tarkin had been so intent on his task, on corralling Vader properly, he hadn't realized he was more than half-hard already himself. Not until Vader's touch found him there, squeezed lightly, and Tarkin's breath caught. He should have noticed the flush of power creeping up him as his tactics worked, the rush of his pulse as he tried not to think about all the things that could naturally go wrong in a room with a frustrated Vader. He had time to savor it now, though.

It was strange. He was immobilized, pawed over by a man who called him a toy. But he felt - powerful.

That was when the pain started, of course. Vader didn't hit him this time. Instead it was sharp, precise. A knife-edge of sensation, a line down the meat of his shoulder blade.

"I should take you apart," Vader said, "for your cheek."

Tarkin's eyes were still half-closed. "That sounds lovely at the moment, actually."

"I should fill your mouth, so you can no longer talk back to me."

Tarkin did open one eye all the way at that. "With what, Vader?"

A toy, he supposed. A gag or similar - were there kink supplies in that supply closet, stored along with the tablecloths and everything else? How amusing that would be. Gags weren't  _entirely_ Tarkin's kink, but they were one he could be flexible about.

When Vader had ordered him to his knees, last night, he _had_ thought for a moment of what dominant men more typically meant by that. Tarkin liked blowjobs more than he liked gags, but of course that wasn't really an option with Vader. He had a brief mental image of some other submissive, the kind with more nervous enthusiasm than sense, desperately tonguing and nuzzling at the rigid black plate at Vader's groin, oblivious to how little effect it had.

Though, of course, there was more than one way for an act to have an effect. To some people, that image might be attractive simply because it was debasing. Like boot-licking. But Vader did seem to prefer the Force, rather than anything that fetishized the suit itself.

Vader took a step closer. He kept Tarkin upright, but lightly Force-grasped his face, raising his chin to stroke suggestively at his throat. "It is unwise to assume anything is impossible for me."

"Is it?"

Vader cradled Tarkin's face. He didn't cut again, but the sharp Force-edges were still there, poised at his cheekbones and jaw. "Do you want that? To have me in your mouth, on your tongue? Making you swallow me?"

"No sharp edges inside me," Tarkin stipulated, because those clawlike points were a bit distracting. "Anywhere inside me, really, that's just a general rule. And choking from the inside is still choking. Don't even think about that. Otherwise, yes, Vader, I'm intrigued."

Vader gestured, and Tarkin floated backwards, coming to rest with his back to one of the stretches of window without a table in the way. His knees folded under him. His clothes came off in the usual efficient, fluttering way.

"You will not be able to use your safeword," said Vader, "if your mouth is occupied. I will leave your right arm free to move. If you need to stop, rap the back of your hand twice against the glass."

"All right," said Tarkin. It had taken a month or two to teach Vader to be careful about safewords, so he was pleased he remembered.

"Then we will begin," said Vader.

Vader had been so forceful only a moment ago, but the Force-touch that met Tarkin's lips was surprisingly gentle. Tarkin felt he could have talked around it if he chose, even pushed it away. Just a surface touch, a soft tingling press. Like a kiss, while Vader carefully held his head.

Somehow it made Tarkin want to laugh. He and Vader had done so many perverse, filthy, scandalous things. And now here he was, feeling an irrationally guilty thrill, because they were _kissing._ That had not happened before.

He shut his eyes. Vader's touch slipped between his lips, danced at the tip of his tongue. For a moment Tarkin kissed back, and then he had a small attack of self-consciousness. _Should_ he kiss back? The thing touching him didn't have any nerve endings to stimulate. Vader's pleasure came from what Tarkin felt, not what Tarkin did.

He should do whatever felt good, then, he supposed.

He kissed back again, flicking the tip of his tongue lightly. The pressure at his lips became more forceful, pushing him slightly backwards against the Force-grip holding his head, and for a moment, with eyes shut, the illusion was almost perfect: a rough, hungry kiss, the kind where teeth might catch on skin. The kind that two desparately aggressive people who weren't wearing a mask might share, pushed up against some wall somewhere, before diving for more.

"Good," Vader murmured. "Let me test you a moment."

Sensation pressed further in, and then with the tiniest shift it no longer felt like a kiss. It was the same flexible, probing touch Vader always used at the beginning of a scene. Tarkin went still and let himself be explored. All along his tongue, and under it, and the insides of his lips and cheeks. His _teeth,_ of all things. The roof of his mouth, his palate, and then inexorably down his throat, until he reflexively swallowed. The feeling eased a bit then, pulling back in a swirl of sensation until it was a kiss again.

Vader still held his head in place with that sharp-edged grasp, but he wasn't digging in. No pain yet, not while they had something else new to explore.

"Your presence is more relaxing when you cannot speak," Vader observed.

Tarkin was contrary enough to _try_ to speak, at that. He managed an "mmph" noise. He could move his jaw and tongue, but not with their full range of motion.

He bit down experimentally. Of course there was nothing there with nerve endings for him to hurt. Just the Force gently blocking his way. His teeth did not quite come together.

"Yes," said Vader, sounding amused. "You may struggle, but I do not require it. I have you."

He'd remembered to keep talking, which was good. Apart from his fit of impatience, Vader was being very good today.

Vader's Force-touch pressed back against his bite. Tarkin fought it playfully for a moment, then relaxed, letting Vader ease his jaw open. He kept his eyes closed. What pushed all the way into his mouth, this next time, was a firmer presence. The same warm, flexible Force-touch but with size now, with weight. Something he could suck or lick at, or just relax and take in. Tarkin tongued at the shape a little, as it pressed to the back of his throat, trying to visualize its outline. It wasn't _quite_ the shape of a cock. He didn't know what to call it.

"There is no part of you that cannot take me. No part I cannot pleasure or torment, as I choose."

Tarkin's tongue ran along the shape's underside, and quite suddenly, between one moment and the next, there was a _taste_ to it. Skin and salt and gentle musk. He hadn't known the Force could _make_ tastes. He sucked at it reflexively, fascinated, wanting more. He felt his own neglected cock twitch between his legs, hard and straining.

"You like that," Vader purred, "don't you?"

Tarkin could only hiss in a breath through his nose in response. He knew this was all illusion, but his instincts were engaged; he wanted to bring Vader off with his tongue and his throat, impossible though that was. Wanted to swallow him down.

"Your hand is free, and there is no reason not to use it. Touch yourself."

Tarkin opened his eyes, suddenly diverted. He knew every sensation he had in a scene was also Vader's; but Vader had never given Tarkin _control_ of those sensations before. When he teased Tarkin during a scene, or stroked him off at the end of it, it was at a pace and in a manner of Vader's choosing. A manner which was designed to work well with Tarkin's nerve endings, but still.

Tarkin wondered if Vader even realized the significance of what he'd done. What power he'd given over. Or if he was busy concentrating on Tarkin's mouth and had thought to be efficient. He would bet on the latter.

He locked eyes with Vader, or as close to it as he could, looking into those black glossy curves where Vader's eyes should be. He reached with a pair of fingers into his mouth, which resulted in a curious doubled sensation for a moment, the touch of his own fingertips on his tongue overlapping with Vader's touch. He was salivating, he realized; with Vader holding his mouth open, it was a miracle he hadn't drooled.

With moisture gathered properly on his fingers, he slowly, deliberately moved that hand to his own shaft, and slowly, slowly stroked his way up. He felt something tighten inside him, some fizz of arousal as his cock savored the new attention.

Yes, he thought. Let Vader feel this. He could do anything he liked, fast or slow, rough or gentle, and Vader would feel it. He wasn't Vader's toy like this, not an inert thing for Vader to fill with sensation. He was the one, regardless of all that black armor, who was touching Vader.

He stroked twice more, maddeningly light and slow, drawing it out. Then he clenched his tongue around the presence in his mouth, wrapped his whole fist around himself, and squeezed.

"You like this," Vader observed, "more than I expected. I should have tried your mouth before, my toy."

Oh, Force, he really had no idea. Even feeling Tarkin's feelings, he hadn't figured it out yet.

Perhaps, then, it was time for Tarkin to have some fun at Vader's expense.

Tarkin had often wondered how other people, at the sex clubs he had used to frequent, would classify what he and Vader did. If Vader's senses merged with his submissive's senses, if he got off on feeling the pain he inflicted on them, then did that make him a sadist or a masochist? Tarkin suspected the former. A little of both, maybe, but control was the thing.

So: if Tarkin hurt himself so Vader would feel it, if Tarkin assumed control of that, was  _he_ the sadist?

He curled his fingers lightly around his shaft, working them up and down, testing their edges. Tarkin kept his nails short and blunt, but he found what he was looking for: a ragged edge, at the corner of one of them, where he'd trimmed incorrectly.

He dug that edge in at the base of his cock, and then dragged it all the way up, a sharpened line.

Tarkin usually did this sort of thing to his own submissives, not to himself, and it had been a while, and he couldn't quite _see_ from this angle. But he knew the amount of pressure he applied was quite safe. It wouldn't break skin, but would leave a visible mark, an angry pink scratch that would fade in an hour or two.

He watched as Vader, for a tiny, telling half a second, went absolutely still. Even the presence in his mouth stilled, for that half second.

Vader recovered swiftly, though.

"If you need to be cut," he said, "that can also be arranged."

One of the Force-claws at the base of his skull dug in, slicing a line down the back of his neck. That one felt like it did break skin, though in this case the feeling was illusory. The thing in his mouth swelled a little, pushed at the back of his throat, making it impossible to lean either in or away as Tarkin sucked at it through the pain.

Vader had reasserted his dominance, then.

But Vader had not told him to stop.

He did it again. It became a slow rhythm. Tarkin used his nails as he stroked himself, drawing delicate lines. Vader responded with sharp clawed lines of his own, one for one, across his neck and shoulders, back and chest. Tarkin sucked and tongued at the shape in his mouth and it pulsed against him, pulling back only when he felt about to gag.

"You cannot harm me, my toy. If that is what you are trying to do. I can give you agonies with a thought which far outstrip whatever you can do with that hand."

It was true, as far as it went. Vader wasn't working in as sensitive an area, but his part of the rhythm still hurt more than Tarkin's. And this was not Vader being especially aggressive. He was capable of much, _much_ worse.

But that wasn't the point.

No matter how strongly his sadistic side might surface, Tarkin couldn't hurt Vader more than Vader hurt him. But Tarkin was setting the pace for what they both felt. He made his small scratches and Vader answered. Call and response. With nothing but the edge of one fingernail, without even being able to say _words,_ Tarkin had assumed control. And he'd mixed in enough pleasure - with the rest of his hand, with his sheer delight at being able to pull a trick like this off - that Vader had followed his lead.

He could feel his cock leaking little beads of moisture, very close now. He wanted to keep going, wanted to run Vader right over the ragged edge of pleasure, mixed with pain Tarkin had put there. He wanted to come. He wanted -

Tarkin had played submissive to Vader for six whole months without a problem. But he'd been thinking harder than usual today about _managing_ Vader, training him, getting the right reactions out, and that had brought out his dominant side at last. He wanted to _use_ Vader. He wanted to win. He wanted Vader lying helpless before him, full of sensations Tarkin chose. He wanted Vader, the most terrifying man in the galaxy, to forget every need and every whim but the need to please _him._ He wanted -

Vader's helmet tilted. Puzzled. "Your feelings are doing something strange. Are you-"

...And, in his excitement, he'd forgotten that Vader would feel it when he switched, too. Vader could feel the fantasies Tarkin instinctively assumed were private, even if he didn't quite see the details, even if he didn't understand yet what they were.

Well, he wasn't going to pre-emptively censor his thoughts. If Vader didn't like it, Vader could _tell_ him to stop. If Vader didn't want Tarkin to make them both come this way, then Vader had a dozen ways to stop him.

His grip on himself grew tighter. This was even better than having a hand free. If Vader felt what Tarkin felt, then Tarkin could change the whole character of what they were doing, just by thinking.

He closed his eyes and let himself imagine it so vividly. Vader kneeling at his feet. Vader twitching in his grasp. Vader begging him for more, whining the way he'd whined just before they started this, in an agony of helpless desire. _Vader -_

His orgasm shook him, and it took all his will to stay focused, to stubbornly keep the feeling going until he'd stroked himself all the way through.

He let go, then. Relaxed. A second later - call and response - Vader let go of him. The feeling in his mouth dissolved to nothing, the pain vanished, and he dropped gently to the floor.

He took a deep breath.

Now that the endorphins of the moment were draining away, he did feel doubt. He'd broken protocol. _Who tops?_ was the sort of basic question that was meant to be negotiated beforehand, not changed mid-scene. Unless changing it mid-scene was everyone's kink, of course, but then that should be negotiated too. Tarkin was supposed to be teaching _Vader_ to do better about things like that. He'd gotten over-excited, he supposed.

"Was that all right?" he asked. A dominant's question; if he'd stayed properly in submissive mode, he'd be bothering Vader for aftercare.

Vader regarded him thoughtfully. That was a good sign. Vader should actually think about the answers to questions like that.

"It was unusual," he answered finally. "We will not do that often, I think. But you did not distress me. You are still my toy."

Fair enough.

Vader opened the supply closet and levitated over a small pack of towelettes for Tarkin to clean himself. "Next time," said Vader, "we will need to find some new way to occupy your mind."

Tarkin was all for that, really. He was already planning his next moves. He'd need to watch Vader closely for signs of distress, despite his words. He definitely did not trust Vader to be forthcoming about his feelings. _You did not distress me_ sounded honest enough, and Vader wasn't giving the signs of agitation he'd given last night, but there could always be delayed reactions.

This would all be so much easier if they could both just be honest with each other. Vader was afraid to express what he felt, apart from anger and lust. Vader was afraid to hear half of what Tarkin felt, too. It was going to keep taking almost all of Tarkin's attention just to navigate that, to maneuver around problems that couldn't be spoken.

And of course, he'd just introduced a new one, hadn't he.

Maybe Tarkin wasn't doing as well at this as he'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was the weirdest blowjob scene i have ever written. bye


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin gets distracted by work. Vader isn't distracted at all.

By the time they emerged from the eighth floor, it was past lunchtime, so Vader led Tarkin back to the dining hall. Fortress protocol and common sense both dictated that the house servants not interrupt, even by comm link, when Vader and a submissive were alone in a room; they had simply kept the food warm and waited.

Vader didn't like to sit with visitors while they ate. He returned instead to his chambers on the second floor, where M4 had set out the usual nutrient packs. Loading those into the appropriate ports took only a minute, and was a task Vader could easily do by himself. He then sat on the padded bench at the side of the room. He didn't think Tarkin would take long eating, and he didn't want to bother setting up the meditation chamber, but he needed to think.

Tarkin had been uneasy when he first reached the fortress, and more willing than normal to follow Vader's lead. But he'd clearly recovered from that state. Maybe too much.

Vader knew Tarkin was a switch, and that wasn't a problem; he'd played with switches before. But he hadn't anticipated Tarkin's reaction to having a hand free. Most switches playing submissive, if ordered to touch themselves for their partner's amusement, enjoyed it in a submissive way. But Tarkin was a weirdly vicious little cuss, and apparently that wasn't how he responded to instructions.

Vader hadn't _minded_ the result, exactly. But it had been... strange.

Tarkin seemed to think he'd turned the tables entirely. Vader disagreed. Tarkin was still fundamentally a vessel for Vader's sensations, no matter how intense his sadistic delight when he'd realized he could provide his own counterpoint, or the dominant fantasies he'd leaned into at the end. It wasn't like Vader's partners had never had an irrelevant fantasy mid-scene before.

The fantasies themselves hadn't bothered him. He hadn't even seen their details, only picked up the general feel. But he was bothered by what else they implied.

Vader was used to partners who were afraid of him. That was the primary reason why submissives played with him at all. Vader really had very little to offer in a relationship; he was profoundly disabled, emotionally unavailable, had issues with anger and impulse control, couldn't do most of the normal things people did on a date, and lived a weird and isolated life. He was strong with the Force, but that wasn't enough by itself.

Generally, submissives liked Vader for just one reason: because he was a big, scary, murderous, demonic-looking space wizard who scared them.

This gave Vader's relationships a short shelf life. As submissives got used to playing with him, knowing they'd get pleasure and come out of it all right in the end, their fear faded. It was a foolish response - he still could have killed them with a thought - but an inevitable one. Some submissives stayed interested after that stage, if Vader fit enough of their other kinks. But most of them got bored and wandered off.

Tarkin was losing his fear faster than most, and Vader did not like that at all.

He didn't want Tarkin to be bored with him. He felt surprisingly strongly about that. But it wasn't the real problem. Tarkin wasn't _safe_ unless he was afraid. He'd seen that in his almost-vision. Tarkin would be killed by a thing he refused to fear. He would be hurt on this very visit by a thing he _couldn't_  logically fear. At this rate, the things Tarkin feared were the only safe things for him to be around.

They had the rest of today, and all of tomorrow, and then Tarkin would leave the next morning. The disaster could happen anytime in that remaining window. Vader had no idea when Palpatine would strike, if he'd do it quickly to surprise them more, or if he'd leave it until the last minute just to fray Vader's nerves. But he could feel the clock ticking in his mind.

If Tarkin was only safe when afraid, and he stopped fearing Vader, what did that mean?

_You cannot save anyone. Not from yourself._

Vader got up abruptly from the bench and lunged towards the opposite wall, clenching his hands. It took some effort not to reach out with the Force and break something. But he made the effort. Getting angry last night hadn't solved anything. He refused to do that again.

If he wanted to keep Tarkin afraid, he couldn't do it by throwing a tantrum. Tarkin wasn't fazed by Vader's tantrums anyway. He'd have to be cleverer than that. He'd have to be _Tarkiny_ about it.

Tarkin had said there was a limit to his sexual appetites; so Vader had until evening to plan their next scene. Unless Palpatine hurt Tarkin before that, in which case, well, they'd have a lot else to discuss. Otherwise, he just had to keep Tarkin diverted and his temper under control while he came up with something. He could probably do that. If he had trouble, he could pull back, take some time to meditate or train. Tarkin had been solicitous of Vader's comfort so far; he'd understand that.

He could keep this going a little longer, as long as he controlled himself.

Like Vader had ever managed to do that before.

*

Vader hadn't returned by the time Tarkin finished lunch, which was as excellent as breakfast. A very fine salad - where _did_ they get vegetables on Mustafar? - mixed with delicate slivers of meat, and hearty rolls with butter, and a cold sweet drink. When those striking red-and-white dishes were cleared away, he spent a while reading more of the work file on his datapad. It was an interesting file, and it distracted him from wondering what exactly Vader was up to, or what to do next, or whether and to what extent Tarkin had just screwed up something important.

Vader would either be distressed after their last scene or wouldn't. Even if Tarkin had a misstep to correct, that wouldn't take precedence over the general Theory Of Dealing With Vader. So: no indulging any insecurity. No fawning after him, repeatedly making sure he was really okay. He'd assume that everything was fine, and that Vader was all right with him taking control from time to time, until he saw evidence otherwise. And in the meantime, he had his work, which was being more than its usual interesting self.

He almost didn't hear Vader's breath. Not until the door had opened and Vader was already in the room, regarding him quietly.

"You are reading something absorbing, I see."

"Just work," said Tarkin, marking his place and putting his datapad away. "You remember that file that came in just as I was about to leave. I'd prefer you over work if you're available, of course, but it's not uninteresting. It will need a lot of attention when I return. I'm a little amazed that the Emperor didn't veto my time off entirely, to be honest."

Vader turned his head slightly and said nothing. He seemed unamused.

"Well," said Tarkin, dusting off his hands. He wasn't about to apologize for having found a way to entertain himself when left alone in a room. "What were you thinking of doing this afternoon?"

"We did not manage to finish our tour. I will take you to the lower levels."

Tarkin's mouth quirked. "The ones you said were boring?"

"I... may have exaggerated."

The lift door opened out, a short while later, into a large dark space suffused with a flickering reddish glow. Tarkin registered the sounds of it before his eyes adjusted, the clank of gears and the hiss of steam. It wasn't as large as some of the industrial power generation facilities he'd toured, and not as pulsingly intricate as the engines of a Star Destroyer, but the principle was the same. It was _very_ muggy, and there were the telltale whirs of maintenance droids flitting about, tending to the machines.

"Apart from vehicle fuel," said Vader, "this chamber meets all our fortress's energy needs. Do not try to walk around until you can see."

Tarkin blinked until sensible shapes emerged. Pipes and chutes and ducts, steam chambers below great turbines, which rumbled as they spun. He knew the basic idea of how geothermal power worked: the lava below them heated water, which turned the turbines, and was then cooled and condensed for reuse. It was the only sensible way to do things on a world like Mustafar.

"Hm," he said, wondering why Vader had chosen this errand. "Do you spend much time here?"

"No," said Vader. "I enjoy machines, but I am an amateur, and my skills are out of date. If anything should go wrong in this chamber, or should upgrades be needed, we have a team of real technicians on call. Can you see?"

"More or less," said Tarkin. It was gloomy, and steam thickened the air, but his eyes had adjusted well enough to see some details. Condensation on the nearest pipes. A bit of pebbly roughness on the ground by his feet; the floors in this area had not been fully finished.

"Come this way," said Vader.

Even Vader walked slowly here, mindful of obstacles or drops that might not be fully visible in the darkness. Tarkin followed him carefully. They rounded a corner and the space opened out onto a ledge, one that plunged down directly into the lava river. There was a diagonal channel cut out of rayshield-reinforced ceramic, which dipped into the river at its lower end and rose to a cauldron just below the bulb of a steam chamber. By some quirk of momentum, lava from the river's currents splashed _up_ the channel and into the cauldron, where it spattered and boiled before draining away.

Tarkin did not like this floor very much. He looked apprehensively around at the other steam chamber bulbs he could see. There must be several cauldrons spaced around the room, each red-orange and churning, each powering another part of the generator proper.

He looked over at Vader, who was facing the cauldron, not him. Staring into the red glow, lost in thought, his cape fluttering slightly in a transient hot breeze.

"Do you _like_ looking at lava?" Tarkin asked. "I've always wondered that. I've never understood how you can."

"It would be an exaggeration to say I like it. But I have grown used to this place. The Dark Side is strong here. And I like this particular room. I like that the river is made to do its work and play its role, like everyone."

Tarkin thought that was the closest to an actual emotional admission that Vader had made all visit. He was pleased and intrigued. He resisted the urge to push further just yet.

"Is lava inherently strong in the Dark Side, then? Or is it this batch of lava specifically?"

"Some of each. This part of Mustafar is especially strong. There was a temple here long ago. Now there is only me."

Tarkin tried to imagine an ancient lava temple, then decided that this entire place was over-the-top and ridiculous enough already and it was better if he didn't.

"Well," he said brightly, drawing himself up straight, "that was enlightening. I'm glad I got to see this part of the fortress; the technology is most interesting. Shall we continue on?"

"I think not," said Vader. "You wished for human interaction, and I am obliging. This floor is free from the artifice with which you disagreed, and therefore, an ideal place to converse. Unless there is some problem?"

Ah, so _that_ was why they'd come down here. It was a transparent trick - giving Tarkin what he wanted, but only if he stood there amid the lava the whole time, pretending not to be afraid. Linking it to Tarkin's careless comment from earlier was a nice touch. If Vader wanted to reassert control, this wasn't a bad method.

More intriguing was what it implied about Vader's nerves. In Tarkin's working theory, Vader feared him coming to harm most of all, but there were levels and shadings to that fear. He had expressed the most distress, last night, about the idea that Tarkin somehow did not know what he was getting into. Wasn't afraid enough. Perhaps, then, keeping Tarkin on his toes was also Vader's way of soothing himself.

Perhaps, judging by the conversation so far, it would be effective enough to bring some of Vader's other walls down.

He'd rise to the challenge, then.

Tarkin crossed his arms. "Not at all. This is a most interesting floor, as I said. Is there some specific conversation you had in mind, or do you simply enjoy my company?"

"You are the one who wanted it. Any topic is acceptable to me."

Oh, really, thought Tarkin. He suspected that if he led with, _Why are you afraid of affection and how can I fix it?,_ or _So just how emotionally attached to me are you at this point, really?,_ or _What happened to your wife?,_ this would immediately prove not to be the case.

"How is work going, then?" he said instead. "What _do_ you do when you're not on a mission with me?"

"I train. I meditate. I develop my connection to the Dark Side. I go on missions without you. I manage Inquisitors and other specialized teams that are assigned to my care. I make contact with other submissives. What about your work? You are the one who was distracted by it today."

Tarkin sighed shortly. He wasn't going to like it if Vader made an issue out of this. He had looked at his datapad only for a few minutes, when Vader wasn't there, and when Vader entered he'd immediately put it away again. If Vader felt slighted because of this then Tarkin could point out dozens of equivalent and worse ways Vader had slighted him on this visit alone.

He could tell Vader that his work was confidential, but Vader's clearance was high enough for this file. Vader's clearance was high enough for almost everything, really.

So he said:

"Director Krennic says Project Stardust is ready to scale up to full construction. That's the file I've been looking at."

Vader turned his head slightly. "I remember that project. You are still obsessed, I take it."

Project Stardust had been around since the Empire's inception, an incomplete speculative design liberated from the defeated Separatists. It had been a favorite project of the Emperor's, and of Tarkin's as well: it had been one of the first big projects he'd been trusted with after Palpatine's consolidation of power, and he'd loved it intensely. Vader had been assigned to the project too, but he'd liked it less. He'd been very new to being Vader then, and so surly and uncooperative that Tarkin had started to wonder why Palpatine bothered keeping him alive. Vader had matured a little over the years, thank goodness.

Project Stardust had matured too, in a less satisfying way. The actual weapon at its center worked in theory, but it had taken years to prove that the theory's basics worked out in real life, and years more to build a small-scale working prototype. Then there had been countless other engineering dilemmas: how to power it at scale and keep it supplied, how to shield the rest of the station from the energies involved. Finally, there was the problem of _size:_ any structure strong enough to house the weapon would be the size of a small moon, which made construction planning nearly intractable.

The project had become so delayed, and so over-budget, that Tarkin had begun to despair. He had kept Krennic funded enough to continue attacking the problems, as long as Krennic had hope. But he'd seriously considered that perhaps the entire thing was not meant to be. Perhaps Project Stardust, like so many other projects, was a very expensive and frustrating pipe dream.

But if it did work.

If it _did._

Just the thought of it still made Tarkin's fingertips tingle.

"I'm not obsessed," Tarkin said mildly. "I'm being practical. This is a project of great importance to the Empire, and Krennic claims he's solved the last engineering issues holding it back; he says it will take only a year or two to build the final structure. It remains to be seen if he's correct. When I'm back at work, I'll need to read his full report in detail, meet with the rest of my research administration committee, work out where exactly all the funding for the next stage will come from, and make my recommendation to the Emperor."

"The Emperor will approve it. He is as obsessed as you are."

"Provided my committee and I don't find any glaring errors in Krennic's report, yes. But the details must still be attended to."

"One of the advantages to living on Mustafar," said Vader, "is that there are very few committees."

A weapon capable of destroying an entire planet, Tarkin thought. It lifted his mood, even down here in midst of the lava cauldrons. A weapon like that, if it _worked_ , would change everything. The way wars were fought. The way systems were governed. No one would ever raise a hand against the Empire again, not in the face of such assured destruction.

"I think the Emperor may want you back on the team if it goes through," he said. "Several planetary industries will need to be commandeered and accelerated to provide the materials. That will mean stern conversations with the people who run the mines and factories, and you're good at those."

Vader's long stare into the lava, if anything, had become stormier. "I will do what the Emperor requests of me, as ever. But I tired of this project long ago. Even if it works, the power to destroy a planet is insignificant next-"

"I know, I know." This was an argument they'd had before, a worn and comfortable one.

"The Force permeates everything at scales and levels of subtlety you cannot imagine. That is true power. The games humans play are nothing."

Tarkin studied his nails. "Well, I have no complaints about the power of the Force. But until you can use it to blow up a planet for me, I'm going to maintain that your argument is invalid and you're jealous."

"It is not the planet itself that you seek to destroy. A planet is mere rock. The Rebels and their ilk are the real threat."

"But that's the point, Vader. It's not simply about _using_ the weapon, it's about making everyone afraid you'll use it. The Rebellion will disband when we get to that point, even if we don't use the weapon directly against them. They'll look at each other and say, against power like that, what chance do we have?"

"I am not so sure. There will always be those with atypical reactions to terror. Like yours."

Tarkin smiled, amused. "So, you find me where these fearless Rebels are coming from, I'll destroy that planet, and you can pick off the survivors at your leisure. Teamwork. That's only if this actually works, which I'm still not sure about. Krennic has been over-optimistic before."

But he was indulging himself now. Talking about a topic that interested him, to fill the time and distract himself from all the lava. Instead of pursuing his more relevant questions about Vader.

"May I ask you a different question?"

"You may."

"What do you do for fun here, aside from sex? I've seen the rooms for meeting with guests, but what do you do when you have the night off and just want to relax?"

Vader was oddly silent. He turned his head in the flickering light, almost as if he didn't understand the question. Tarkin gave him a bit of time. Counted Vader's loud breaths against the whir of the turbines. Two of them. Three.

"Come, now, that wasn't supposed to be a difficult question. I'm a raging workaholic and even I have things I do for fun."

"When I wish to relax, I meditate," said Vader. He paused again, and added, hesitantly, "I am often tired."

What a magical thing this generator basement was. Vader had admitted vulnerability _twice_ now. In the same conversation. It really did appear that Tarkin's unease calmed him down. Perhaps they'd need to come here more often.

He looked sidelong at Vader. "That's interesting to know. Do visitors make you more tired?"

"You think too highly of yourself if you believe you have tired me."

Which was the mildest of warning signs: Vader needled like that when Tarkin was pressing closer to something uncomfortable. But that didn't mean Tarkin couldn't needle back. "Oh? Then you won't mind if I propose something strenuous."

"What would that be?"

"You mentioned a training area, and I've been thinking about that. I don't know if it's an area where you permit escorted visitors, but if it is, and if you were planning to use it today, then I should dearly like to watch how you train."

It was one of the ideas he'd kept in reserve in case Vader didn't have one. Part of what attracted Tarkin to Vader was the sheer power he wielded. But Tarkin was usually somewhat removed from the front line of any given battle, and so he rarely had a chance to see that up close. Besides, it would give Tarkin some time to think, in a somewhat friendlier environment, about his next moves.

"That is a common request," said Vader. "Yes, Tarkin. You may watch me."

*

The north wing on the first floor was a black stone hallway, broken by three doors. One, back the way they'd come, was the entrance hall; another, at the opposite end, looked like the size and type for a small private room. The kind that housed a meditation chamber, presumably.

The third door, set into the hallway's longest side, was an archway leading into a very large, high-ceilinged room. The design reminded Tarkin of training rooms at the Imperial Academy, though the details differed. An intricate pattern of lines marked the otherwise open, empty floor. The walls held some of those round training remotes the Jedi Order had once used; some larger, irregularly-shaped items that Tarkin couldn't identify; and what looked like blaster turrets protruding directly out of the wall, as well as smaller odds and ends.

"I should make it clear," said Vader. "I do not mind being watched, but my training routines are not designed for an audience. Their purpose is to keep mind and body in shape for the battles to which I may be called. It will not be safe for anyone in the room once the sequence begins, and I cannot be interrupted. You will have to watch through the ray shield. Is that acceptable?"

"Of course," said Tarkin; he'd already assumed most of that without being told. It sounded more like a speech for civilians.  He wondered again just how many people had visited this fortress as he was doing now, and just who. He wondered if all of them were worthy of Vader, really, or even capable of understanding him. He suspected not.

"Do you prefer a short demonstration, or a full session?"

"It's your training, so I'd think it would be up to you. But I wouldn't mind seeing the full."

"Very well," said Vader.

He strode into the training room without another glance back. A ray shield sprang into place behind him a second later, filling the archway, transparent and crackling red. Tarkin watched through it as Vader took a position at the center of the room, where several of those lines on the floor intersected, and took a readying stance.

"Sequence three hundred and thirty-two," said Vader to the room.

Tarkin heard a low chime like a control panel activating, though the panel itself was outside his view. The sound repeated a moment later, accompanied by a second chime of higher cadence, and Vader began.

The first minutes of warm-up were surprisingly gentle. Tarkin hadn't paid much attention to the Jedi Order, back when it was around, but he'd occasionally seen Jedi engaged in movement-based meditation, slow gestures and sweeps of the limbs. More about honing focus, balance and stance, than combat itself. Vader's motions looked a lot like that. Tarkin didn't know what internal discipline might or might not be paired with them. If Vader was using the Force for some invisible purpose, or just stretching out his body.

Tarkin stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back. There was no place to sit comfortably in this hallway, apart from the floor. But Tarkin was comfortable standing for a while.

There was another of those multi-pitched chimes every few minutes, apparently keeping time for the routine; some of them visibly shifted Vader into a different series of exercises. He moved on gradually to deeper stretches, at least as much as the suit's range of motion allowed, and more vigorous forms. Some of these Tarkin recognized as useful moves for unarmed combat - inasmuch as Vader, wrapped in armor and full of the Force, could ever be called _unarmed._ Others looked more like physiotherapy, repetitive and simple.

Tarkin watched Vader idly as he went over his plans. He'd wanted to assert himself and reassure Vader: both of those seemed to be progressing at least a little. He was getting a bit more of a handle on how to do both at once, even if it required a lava room.

What did he want next? "Reassure Vader" was so broad. He had no delusions of being able to solve all Vader's psychological problems in a single visit. What was realistic for tonight and tomorrow? He wanted Vader to open up a bit more, he supposed. And he wanted - hm.

Vader had been frightened by the potentially romantic intention Tarkin's gift had implied. Even without his fear, he might not be interested in those possibilities. Which was not a moral failing; plenty of people weren't. But Tarkin wanted friendly affection, at least. Being dehumanized and called a toy during sex was one thing, but it wasn't as much fun outside a scene. He wanted to know Vader enjoyed his company, admired him for reasons beyond mere lust. He wanted Vader emboldened to express that much. Or, at minimum, to cooperate when Tarkin expressed it in the other direction.

Both of those goals were vague enough that the best tactics, for now, might be opportunistic. Stay alert, enjoy himself, and wait for another good opening like the one he'd stumbled onto in the generator room.

Another chime, and with a fluid motion, Vader drew out his lightsaber. The red blade hummed into being, and he moved into a series of armed exercises. Parried and swung against imaginary opponents as he prowled in small loops around the most central parts of the room.

Vader was very good, as far as Tarkin could tell, never having wielded a blade himself. His movements were fluid and assured, his stances strong. He also went about it very differently, compared to the able-bodied Jedi Tarkin had seen in action so many years ago. Those, even Vader's old self, had seemed to defy physics with their lightness and speed. Vader in the suit was undeniably weighty. It was a credit to his skill that he didn't look outwardly impaired. Instead he moved with the grace of some huge fanged beast, leaving deep footprints as it stalked its prey.

Another chime. Vader returned to the room's center and stilled there, saber raised, waiting.

The first shot came at him from an angle such that Tarkin couldn't see the source, only the sudden brightness of the bolt as Vader deflected it. A second one came from a turret at the room's far end, and Vader caught it on his saber's edge with ease. Then all at once the training remotes swarmed up from their shelves, and the room became a hellscape of blaster fire in every direction, bolts flying too quickly and wildly for Tarkin's eyes to track.

Vader turned in the center of it all. He flicked and spun his saber, catching every bolt and sending them reflected back out in every direction. Several remotes sparked and dropped to the ground as their own bolts, or their companions' bolts, returned to them. The ray shield fizzed as more than a few stray shots flew that way. Vader's sheer economy of movement was astonishing: each instant a new twist of his blade caught four bolts, five. He must be working astonishingly hard, but he made it look easy.

Tarkin was terribly fond of weapons, and Vader was _such_ an effective one.

Another chime, scarcely audible over the cacaphony of blaster fire.

An enormous shape that Tarkin couldn't immediately identify, something clumsily lashed together out of scrap metal, dropped down from overhead. Without faltering in his bladework,  Vader raised his left hand and sent it careening to the side. It crashed to the ground with a horrific screech. Another dropped after it. The room was filled no longer merely with blaster fire, but with heavy, substantial shapes flying nearly as quickly, and much more loudly.

Vader danced through it, no longer a prowling beast but the eye of a whirlwind. Material flew so fast that Tarkin couldn't sort out which was which direction, how much hurled itself at Vader and how much Vader tossed away. He sliced one of the scrap-metal shapes cleanly in half. Both pieces fell in opposite directions, glowing slightly at their edges, catching swarms of those red blaster bolts that still rained down.  Another bundle of metal came in low, landspeeder-fast, at his legs. He leapt - no, he  _flipped_ over it; how in the galaxy could anyone do a  flip in that suit? - and landed on his feet, saber up, casually deflecting more blaster fire as the low bundle crashed into two of the others.

And on it went. And on.

Tarkin's breath caught more than once. He'd expected to be impressed, but this was more than he'd expected. He'd seen Vader fight, but not like _this_ \- because, of course, no one but Vader could have survived a chaos like this one.

Vader was unique. The last of his kind. It was the Force that made him superhuman, so strong, deadly, and precise. The same Force that held Tarkin in place, hurt him, cradled him and fucked him, when he and Vader were alone together.

He was starting to really want to do that again.

The chime sounded again at last, and Tarkin braced himself for a half-second wondering how there could possibly be _more,_ but the blaster fire instantly stopped, and the flying objects settled. Vader stayed in his saber-up stance a moment longer, wary, and then the red saber retracted into its hilt.

The rest was a long, careful cool-down, more of those slow fluid stretches from the beginning. Tarkin watched without impatience. Vader was so beautiful, so perfectly designed.

At last there was a final chime, and the ray shield switched off.

Vader sashayed out of the training room. They stopped only a few inches apart. Regarded each other. Sequence three hundred and thirty-two, counting warm-up and cool-down, had taken over an hour and a half. Vader wasn't even breathing hard. His mask took care of that, pushing air in and out in the audible rhythm that had never changed. If he was sweating, flushed, if he had felt the strain of any exertion whatsoever, the suit hid it completely.

"I like the way you look at me," said Vader.

"I like the way you look," Tarkin replied. He smiled slightly. "I hope I wasn't too distracting."

"I would have made a mistake if I found you distracting."

"I'm no Force user," Tarkin acknowledged, "but I saw no flaws. Of course, I'm wondering if you designed this routine just to show off."  It had worked, if so.

A group of maintenance droids bobbed past them and into the training room. They set about picking up the smoking wreckage of the training equipment Vader had destroyed. Tarkin wondered how fast they went through scrap metal and training remotes, if there was a new bulk order out for them every week, or if they mainly just lashed new targets together from the remains of the old ones.

"It is nearly evening," said Vader. "Have an early dinner. Read more of Krennic's report if you wish. Then come to the eighth floor at sunset. I have decided what I would like to do with you next."

That was odd, and intriguing - Vader actually planning something, not just pouncing as soon as the urge hit. Perhaps his training sequence focused him in more ways than one.  Tarkin was all too happy, this time, to comply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Periodically between now and Episode IV, Vader is like, "You love that Death Star more than me," and Tarkin is like, "Valid."
> 
> ...I feel like every time I post a chapter with smut I'm like OH NO WHAT IF IT GOT TOO WEIRD and every time I post a chapter without smut I'm like OH NO WHAT IF IT IS BORING NOW. I guess we know I'm only here for one thing.
> 
> I am pleased by your comments as always <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader's idea for a scene doesn't quite go as planned, resulting in a confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do NOT talk to me about That Comic, do not even START, I am Feeling A Way.
> 
> Alternate title for this chapter: "I lava you."

Dinner came with wine and with a very cold refreshing dessert, though Tarkin took care not to over-indulge. He had to surreptitiously ask Kal when sunset was. Mustafar's sky was never visible behind its ash-dark cover of clouds. It was never overly bright, and never all that dark, either, to Tarkin's eye; even the sky last night had been eerily lit by the molten ground's glow. Perhaps people who lived here learned to pick up subtler visual signs of the sun, or perhaps their datapads told them.

When he ascended back to the eighth floor, the sky had darkened in a way that seemed to have less to do with sun and more with the clouds. A storm had begun up there, curdling patches of sky from their usual dark gray to a more billowing, coallike blackness in which streaks of lightning flickered. Ash rained lightly and left grayish smears on the windows. Periodically a mouse droid appeared outside, picking its way cautiously across the fortress's expanses of glass to wipe them clean.

In the multipurpose room with its panoramic view of all this, Vader was waiting. In pride of place next to him stood a set of energy restraints.

These were military-grade, Tarkin could tell at a glance: a style that had kept high-risk prisoners secure on both sides of Clone Wars, but had subsequently fallen into official disuse. Tarkin's own brief imprisonment in the war hadn't directly involved these; as much as it hurt his pride to admit, he hadn't been considered quite dangerous enough. But he knew that discarded, repurposed sets had become popular in certain parts of the kink community. Private individuals weren't _technically_ allowed to own them, but they'd hardly be the first bit of military equipment for which determined people skirted that rule. They were impossible to break out of no matter what one did, but they could also be surprisingly comfortable, especially for long suspensions.

"I trust you enjoyed your dinner," said Vader.

"Very well, thank you. I _had_ wondered if you were keeping kink supplies in that closet. But don't you normally prefer to hold me in place yourself?"

"I enjoy that," said Vader. "But on occasion I use these to free my mind for a more complex task. I would like to try something new."

Tarkin had been _so_ curious about this all through his meal. "I'm listening."

"I like to use your senses, but I have not yet used them all. I wish to remedy that. Your sight, first, since you enjoy watching me. I will bind you here and hurt you, and I will give you visions that would not otherwise be possible. Do you want that?"

Tarkin shivered slightly. He remembered how he'd liked it when Vader gave him something to taste. He also felt wary. This sort of careful planning was unlike Vader, and Tarkin didn't know what had prompted it. Revenge for Tarkin's dominant turn earlier, perhaps, but he didn't think so. Vader didn't strike him as the type whose revenge would be _subtle._

On a few early occasions, when Tarkin hadn't finished teaching good habits to Vader, he'd exceeded Tarkin's pain tolerance rather badly. Tarkin had endured those scenes partly by _using_ his sight. Looking down at his body and reassuring himself that it was still in one piece, that the tearing agonies he felt were illusions. Vader's proposal would take that from him.

But they had a safeword now, which was a much more effective way of ending any unpleasantness.

"What sort of visions?" he asked.

"That would be telling."

Tarkin eyed him, amused. "You're normally such a creature of impulse. Where did all this preparation come from?"

"You plan your own work in such detail. I wished to try it your way."

That was... suspicious. Suspicious and flattering. Suspicious _ly_ flattering.

But after all this buildup, Tarkin was curious. He wanted Vader to open up more, not less. If he wanted to figure out what this was about, it looked like he'd need to get into the thick of it.

"No visions of myself being injured," he said, "nor of anything else that would violate my usual limits if it were real. And as always, if I safeword, you will let me down _immediately._  Understood?"

"Of course."

"Then I'd like to try."

Vader didn't begin focusing immediately. He walked languidly to Tarkin, giving him time to glance up at the restraints and doubt himself. When he did take hold of Tarkin and Force-raise him from the floor, it was gentle, like the intertia when a lift stopped rising.

The press of sensation started then, from his head downwards, and he let himself relax into it. Vader took his time, light and careful.

Vader had said that he wanted to imitate Tarkin, but he'd never actually _seen_ Tarkin play dominant. The little interlude this morning didn't count. Tarkin defaulted to being efficient and stern, but he could be other things. When he went slow with a submissive, it could mean that partner was new and nervous, still in the process of being broken in. It could mean they'd encountered something difficult and needed extra care. Occasionally, it meant that Tarkin himself felt unsure of what he was doing and was subtly taking the time to double-check everything.

But gentleness and slowness could be their own exquisite tortures, especially if one feared what came after. Sometimes that could be good. One could take a frightened submissive to oneself and draw out all the preparations, give them time to stew in anticipation, pretending all the while that it was a kindness. Some people could be taken fully apart with nothing but an implacable soft touch that they knew better than to trust.

Whatever had inspired Vader to deviate from his usual aggression, Tarkin didn't trust it at all.

The focusing sweep from his head to his toes finished, finally, and Vader took a step closer still.

"I will strip you here," he said, "since the restraints would prevent it."

Even this was slower than normal. Vader Force-tugged the tunic from Tarkin's body lightly, carefully, as if wary of damaging the fabric. He let it flutter to the floor before starting on Tarkin's boots, and then every other item, individually. Normally Tarkin didn't have much time to get self-conscious, in between the clothes coming off and the real fun starting. He was healthy for his age, but too old to imagine his looks as any real selling point. He wondered how he looked to Vader, how Vader's partners looked to him in general. With senses like Vader's, perhaps other properties were more arresting than beauty. The feel of a mind, the way its thoughts and emotions cohered or failed to. The feel of the body itself, when Vader slipped inside and assumed its senses temporarily as his own.

At last, Vader lifted him further and set him in place. The energy restraints hummed to life, and beams of colored light encircled Tarkin at the wrists and ankles, holding him spread-eagled in the air. His arms above his head, his legs moderately apart.

He felt Vader's grasp around him release, letting the restraints take the slack. Tarkin hadn't actually been _in_ a set of these before. The feel of them was firm, without room for much struggle, but they didn't bite the way physical restraints could. The energy field prevented too much weight converging on any one joint; a general buoyancy, like water, held Tarkin in the air, while the whorls at his wrists and ankles did the more specialized work of preventing movement.

Vader walked around to the front of him to admire his handiwork.

"You are displayed for me helplessly," he said. "Held firm. I like that."

The first Force-blow to his shoulders came then, one of their usual staples, firm and blunt and slightly electric. Tarkin smiled to himself, enjoying it. He wonder if Vader would warn him, tease him, before the visions came, or if they'd happen suddenly and surprise him.

He could imagine another possibility, come to think of it. He could imagine manipulating someone's vision so subtly that they didn't notice it at first. Starting with the room as it was and turning its details gradually more ominous, more surreal, until it was impossible to tell visual fantasy from reality. Making them doubt their ability to understand what was happening at all. He could imagine all the things that _he'd_ do to a willing submissive if he had that power. Or to a recalcitrant prisoner needing interrogation. But did Vader have the finesse? He doubted it, even if Vader was being more deliberate than normal tonight. Vader would attack head-on.

Vader hit him again. A third time.

"But perhaps," he said, "you are not as stable up there as you think."

A fourth blow, and then-

It happened all at once. He was suspended in the air. He could see through the floor below him, through the walls: the whole fortress, reduced to nothing but a tangle of scaffolding. And the river below him, thicker and brighter and angrier than it should have looked from up here, a flaming torrent. And-

And he was _falling._

The scaffolding cracked, crumbled around him. The river rushed up toward his face. He felt a _lurch._  He should not by rights have felt one. He had consented to Vader manipulating his vision, not his internal sense of movement. But his stomach flipped up into his throat as if he were really in freefall. A boiling wind whipped past his bared skin. He was falling straight down into the burning river. And even more viscerally than the rest of it, he felt the rise of a sick, strange, nightmare terror, a terror that felt _wrong_ somehow.

He opened his mouth to say his safeword.

Vader had already stopped, though. The vision instantly melted away. Tarkin was back in the multipurpose room in his energy restraints, and then the restraints themselves switched off and he dropped to the floor. The lurch before landing was not pleasant, but it was smaller than the one in the vision. Only about a foot's drop. He landed in a crouch, unharmed but confused.

"What-?" he managed.

Vader looked shaky, off-balance. "That was not what I intended to do."

Tarkin scrubbed his forehead with the flat of his hand and pushed himself upright. The terror was quickly melting away. He did not understand what he had felt. It had not felt like Tarkin's usual fear of lava. There had been a different character to it, thicker and more disorienting, something he couldn't explain.

"I'm not angry," he said. Mistakes happened when people tried new things, Force-induced or otherwise. "I don't appear to have been harmed. I would like to understand what happened, though, when you've pulled yourself together enough to explain."

"I had a plan." Vader made a fist, began to pace away. "I had a _plan._ "

"I can see that. I was impressed with you for having one. I'd like to know what it was."

And if they were going to have a conversation like this while Vader paced and ranted, Tarkin was going to do his side of it with pants on. He padded to the pile of his clothes on the floor and started fishing around.

Vader stopped, seeming to steady himself with an effort. "I wished to keep you afraid. Things - go better when you are afraid. But you habituate quickly. I felt a need for new ideas. I had an unpleasant dream last night, and I thought perhaps that would serve. But I meant to give you only the vision. Not the other things. I have not done this before. I was... clumsy."

Tarkin supposed that made sense. The feeling of falling, a common one from nightmares.

And that rush of terror, too. He hadn't recognized the problem; he wasn't accustomed to feeling emotions that weren't his. But that was why it had felt wrong to him, and why it had melted away again so quickly. It wasn't Tarkin's reaction to the lava at all. It was Vader's own remembered fear.

How fascinating that there was a palpable difference. How fascinating to think of Vader dealing with ordinary things like nightmares at all. Tarkin tried to always keep in mind that Vader was human, that he experienced everything other humans did unless specified otherwise, but sometimes he did find that he'd forgotten to consider a thing like this.

"Well," he said, pulling his undergarments back on, "mistakes happen. Now we've both learned something. Let's give it a few minutes to wear off, and then perhaps we can try some of our usual fare."

"No. I wanted to do _this._ You do not understand."

Tarkin crossed his arms. Vader's distress was reasonable, but his petulance wasn't. "What precisely don't I understand? You know I've played dominant more often than submissive; you're something of an exception in that regard. If you think I've never felt upset when a scene of my own went wrong, you have _severely_ underestimated me."

"You need to be afraid. This will not work if you are not afraid."

"Why not?"

Of course they both enjoyed playing with fear; of course it calmed Vader when Tarkin felt wary. But if he was fixating on it this severely, there was more to it. There was something here that Tarkin still didn't understand.

Vader paused. Stood there and breathed, in and out, instead of answering.

Tarkin was abruptly very sick of this. It was one thing for Vader to have traumas that made him slow to open up, boundaries around his emotions. Plenty of people had those. It was quite another thing for him to make his emotions Tarkin's problem, using them to bully and complain, while refusing to explain what they _were._ He had done that last night and apologized for it, but now here he was, doing it again. Tarkin didn't know how many more nights like this he could take. He'd hoped he could draw Vader out gradually, worm in at the edges and reassure him bit by bit without him realizing. But that method required stamina. Maybe too much stamina. Maybe Tarkin had to consider the limits of what he could endure.

But he did have something to work with. Vader had admitted more tonight than he had last night. He'd stated what some part of the problem was, even if it didn't quite make sense on its own. In its way, this was even more forthcoming than he'd been in the generator room. _Failure_ was such a fraught concept for Vader; it had made him vulnerable. If Tarkin was willing to press a bit more, he could build on that.

He used the brief silence to step back into his trousers and do them up. When he finished, Vader was still standing in the same spot.

"You will no longer be interested in any of this," Vader said at last, "when you cease to be afraid. Therefore, it is my responsibility to frighten you."

Tarkin blinked. "Is that all?"

It could not be all. There was a great deal it didn't explain, particularly Vader's worry about him being hurt. But it had the ring of a real, though partial, truth. It fit the facts. The way Vader seemed calmer, more assured, the more uneasy Tarkin was.

"Look at me. People want me _because_ they fear me. How could it be otherwise?"

Of course this was part of the truth. It was such a _Vaderish_ worry. Self-centered and aggressive and fatalistic, built on a grain of uncomfortable truth. While also entirely missing the point.

And it took Tarkin's breath away, because it was an admission, however indirect, of how badly Vader wanted Tarkin to stay.

Tarkin smiled to himself, suppressing the full force of it, the feral joy that made him want to bare his teeth. He knew _exactly_ how to deal with this.

"Oh, no, you don't," he breathed. "You don't get to do that. Not with me. Look at me, Vader. Look at _me._ Look at my mind."

Vader turned fully to face him. Tarkin's pulse raced in his veins. The words were shaped like a reassurance, but they felt more like pouncing, like taking the deadly leap for what he really wanted at last.

"I've worked with you for nearly twenty years," said Tarkin. "I do fear you a little, even after all that time. But that's never been all this was about. I liked working with you long before I knew sex with you was even possible. I admire you because you're effective at what you do, because you're _skilled._ Decisive. Powerful. You don't shy away from what needs to be done, even when it's nearly impossible, even when it's cruel. You can do things no one else can. I complain about your aggression but I like that, too. I like the way you take what you want. No one and nothing can stand in your way. You saw how I was looking at you in the training room; that's how I've always looked at you. Look at my mind and you'll see it, Vader. You're a force of nature. I don't need to fear that to want it. I don't know who your other submissives have been, but if they thought otherwise, if they treated you as merely a thrill ride, then they weren't worthy of you."

He could have said more. There was so _much,_ really, when he put it all together like this.

He'd witnessed mind probes before. He wondered if Vader would have to dig to ascertain the truth of his words, if he would feel pain, but of course, there was a lot that a Jedi could already see in a mind without probing. Especially a willing mind. He held Vader's gaze.

Vader's voice was cold. "You _should_ fear me. I am not safe."

Oh. And there it was. They really were doing this all at once, then. Both halves of the truth, after all.

Tarkin raised his chin. He wanted to cradle this part of Vader to him, the part that feared, that didn't trust itself. He wanted to push back against its misgivings until they all crumbled in his hands.

"Look at me," he repeated. "Vader, what do you think I've been _doing_ these past twenty years? I have been constructing an Empire out of terror and death since before you had your name. People speak of me as a synonym for oppression. At every stage, from the very beginning, accomplishing my goals has meant dealing successfully with people even more fearsome than I am. With the Emperor, even. I've been a ruthless man maneuvering his way through a den of other ruthless people my entire career, and I have achieved more than I dreamed possible. What _exactly_ makes you look at me here and think I can't hold my own?"

A breath.

"You think _you_ are worthy of me," said Vader, contempt creeping in.

Oh, no. If Vader was about to start again with the you're-just-a-toy-and-you-don't-matter speech now, when they weren't even in a scene, then Tarkin would turn on his heel and leave the fortress entirely. Whether Vader meant it or not.

But he didn't quite. He looked Tarkin up and down, and Tarkin held his own breath, unsure just what Vader really could see or how deeply. Willing him to see it all.

Vader was the one who turned away first.

"Come to the window," he said. "Watch the storm with me."

Tarkin followed, uncertain. Vader went to one of the small tables by the ash-streaked glass. Looked out at the black and reddish ground. If this was yet another attempt to manage Tarkin by waving lava at him, it was ill-considered. Tarkin was so emotionally preoccupied at this moment that he hardly cared.

He went, though, and stood at Vader's side. The glass was dirty and the storm thickened the air, but he could still see the lava river's outlines winding their bright way across the darkened land.

"Imagine you did fall," said Vader. "Imagine that the lava river swallowed you. Are you worthy of it? Is it worthy of you? Does it care how strong you are or what you have accomplished? Do you care if it is a great river or a lesser one? Everything burns the same. _Worth_ is not the Dark Side's way."

Tarkin looked at the window flatly. "How fortunate that we're humans, then, and not actual piles of lava."

"You are not listening. I am telling you that I am committed to my path. It is a path of selfishness, anger and pain. Everything in me that you could be worthy of is dead. I am nothing but ashes and flame, after all this time. You want to love me. I cannot give you what you want."

Tarkin wanted to open his mouth and protest: he hadn't said that word, that hadn't been what he was asking. He'd been talking about _basics._ Simple reasons why he liked Vader other than fear. Why he needed Vader to trust that he could weigh his own risks. That was all.

But of course, he'd just told Vader to look in his mind. He'd opened himself up willingly, or as willingly as a non-Force-sensitive person could, and who knew how deep Vader had really seen.

Tarkin wanted a lot of things. Victory. Infamy. Power. A working Death Star. The whole Outer Rim cowed into submission to whatever laws and projects he and Palpatine dreamed up. The Empire ascendant, complete, bringing order and peace to the galaxy at last.

And... Vader at his side, through all of it. Yes.

He'd known it already, he just hadn't said it to himself in so many words. He and Vader lived such unusual lives. He wasn't sure what a real romantic relationship with Vader would look like, even if Vader was interested; it would certainly not look _normal._ He'd wanted to find that out as he went, he supposed. The way they had with sex. But Vader already knew what it looked like, and had already declined.

No wonder Vader had difficulty dealing with all these emotions. They were nearly too much even for Tarkin.

He put a hand down on the small table, steadying himself.

"Well," he said, too lightly. "No one ever said this was all about me. What do  _you_ want, then?"

Vader was quiet. Just breathed. Tarkin had a horrible feeling that this was going to be like when he'd asked him what he did for fun. A question that should have been easy. And yet.

There had to be _something_. Maybe not love. But if Vader hadn't gotten attached at all, he wouldn't be so afraid of _losing_ Tarkin, whether to the normal ebb of emotions or to worse things.

Five of Vader's breaths. Six.

"I enjoy making use of you," he said at last. "I would not want that to end. And I do not want you to suffer because of me. Not in ways we did not agree upon."

Tarkin squared his shoulders, trying to pull himself together. It wouldn't do not to show strength. His voice came out clipped. "Then I won't. As you'll recall I just said, I can handle myself."

"Ashes and flame, Tarkin. It is inevitable."

"Is it? What is it that you're so afraid will happen?"

"Do not ask me that."

This was one of Tarkin's weaknesses. He didn't naturally leap into things the way Vader did, but once he got going, he didn't know when to stop.

"And why now? What's gotten you so keyed up on _this_ visit? You weren't on edge like this during any of our other encounters, but you've been agitated practically the entire time I've been here. It's not just because you don't love me. You'd have gotten upset when I first asked you here if that was all. Something's happened between then and now, or something's wrong _here,_ or-"

A cascade of lightning roiled in the distance behind Vader. "Stop."

"Is it the fortress? Is it the break in your routine? Is it some outside matter you don't want to tell me about? Is it something I _did?_ "

Vader reached out, and his Force-grasp constricted around Tarkin's body, so hard that his joints burned. It clamped around his face, pinning his jaw shut and grinding his teeth together.

"Stop," Vader repeated.

He held Tarkin like that until Tarkin had mentally gone through the steps of startlement, fear, chagrin at himself for provoking this. Until he'd decided, after all, that it had been wrong of him to push.

If it hadn't been such a foundational hard limit for him, he knew, he'd be choking now.

"You wish to know all of my mind," Vader said, more softly now. "I cannot give you what you want."

Vader released him and Tarkin immediately raised a hand to his face, took a deep breath.

"I apologize," he said. "I shouldn't have pressed."

Vader had already opened up to him so much more tonight than either of them planned, but he should have known there was a limit to it, even in Vader's vulnerable state. It had been selfish to reach for more.

"Forgiven," said Vader.

Vader was not, of course, a forgiving person, but Tarkin wasn't going to look that gift in the mouth just now.

They stood in silence for a minute or so, while Tarkin tried to get his thoughts back into order. The storm outside rumbled softly, and another mouse droid crept along the window, fruitlessly cleaning.

"Well," said Tarkin at last. "What do you propose we do for the rest of the evening? I'm open to suggestions." He didn't feel much like sex right now, what with all his other tangled feelings, but he supposed a sufficiently interested Vader might be able to convince him.

"I believe," said Vader, "that I understand what I did wrong when I gave you that vision. The error is correctable."

"Oh, good," said Tarkin. "We're still not doing that again."

There was a pause.

"There is one thing I do wish to show you," said Vader. "Now that I understand what you want from me. It is brief. It does not involve lava. It will not frighten you at all, I think. But it is something that must never be spoken of aloud, not even a word. You must never ask me what it is, nor what it means."

Tarkin looked at Vader very, very suspiciously.

But here was his other weakness, he supposed. His curiosity would never let an offer like that rest.

"All right," he said. "Briefly."

Vader walked to him and cradled his face, gently, with a gloved hand. Tarkin blinked up at him. Even now, Vader rarely made actual physical contact unbidden.

Vader touched one finger to the center of Tarkin's forehead.

Tarkin was braced for something else to go wrong this time, but the image that filled his senses this time was simple and calm. A static picture, entirely free from lava, or from strange invasive bursts of emotion, or anything else but the picture itself.

It was a pretty scene from some planet more hospitable than Mustafar. A calm lake on a clear day, surrounded by greenery. It looked secluded, but not wild; the edges of a few small quaint structures pushed here and there through well-tended leaves. Tarkin didn't recognize the architectural style, nor anything else of significance. He could try to memorize details and look them up later, he supposed, but that didn't seem sporting.

The edge of some railing or balcony was faintly visible, unfocused, in the foreground. Turning his head didn't give any more clarity; the image moved with him, like a painting held up before his eyes. Whether originally a dream or real, this must be some memory of Vader's, but Tarkin couldn't tell if the memory was happy or sad. If Vader was alone or in company. It must be a memory fraught with meaning - Vader wouldn't have given that odd warning if it wasn't - but any meaning comprehensible to Tarkin had been precisely peeled away.

Any meaning but this: It wasn't ashes. It wasn't flame.

He stared at the image as long as he could. Stayed silent, as instructed. When it finally dissolved and the eighth floor came back into view, Vader was gone. 

The lights above the lift indicated that it was still descending. Tarkin watched it go down, past the guest floors, past the servants' areas, to stop on floor two. Vader's personal quarters, where he would stay the night. Whatever the vision meant, it seemed Vader had intended it to be the last word.

Tarkin didn't understand, not even a little bit. But he knew he had been given something unutterably precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's still good in him. i know it. i know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader has a bad morning. Tarkin has a bad morning. Nothing is resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smol content note: This fic is labeled m/m and, indeed, all the actual shipping that occurs in here is m/m! But towards the end of this chapter there is an itty bitty very explicit m/f sequence that happens in a character's imagination. That's the only time that will happen in this fic and if you're squicked by m/f you can just skip to the end of the chapter when you get there - it's pretty clearly signposted and you won't miss any Major Plot Surprises or anything. (Wheee.)

Vader woke up feeling like absolute death.

Everything hurt. Or rather, while every part of Vader always hurt, this morning's pain was worse than usual and above the threshold he could gracefully deal with.  _Breathing_ hurt, sickeningly so. He didn't have a choice about breathing - the tank's mask did that for him - but he definitely did not want to think about moving or opening his eyes.

This happened sometimes. It wasn't alarming, just unpleasant. With permanent injuries like Vader's, pain fluctuated over time. Some of it was random, but unusual levels or types of activity could make it worse. Stress could make it much worse.

No real mystery there, then.

Last night had gone... badly. He had designed the scene intending to keep Tarkin in line, and instead he'd lost control entirely. He had managed not to warn Tarkin about Palpatine's plan, but in the process, he'd said almost everything else. More than he'd intended to.

It wasn't that he didn't want what Tarkin offered. Vader was too broken to ever be in love again, but admiration, loyalty, the attention of someone strong and clever enough to survive Vader's flaws - yes. Why not. He'd take those things if he could.

But Tarkin didn't understand about being Sith. Even their casual existing arrangement was almost more than Palpatine would permit. And he couldn't explain that without alerting Tarkin to the fact that Palpatine was paying attention. When he did find that out, when Palpatine hurt him however Palpatine was going to hurt him, it would change things. It would prove that this situation _was_ dangerous, no matter how Tarkin insisted he could handle himself. The more Tarkin thought he had, before that happened, the worse it would be.

Tarkin had put on a brave face, but it had been hard to watch him flounder in the grip of feelings Vader wasn't allowed to return. So he'd said more than he should have. Shown more than he should have.

Even then, he'd only dared to show that second vision because he'd known Tarkin wouldn't understand. Tarkin had never been to Naboo. He wouldn't recognize the lake. Wouldn't know what had happened there. Even if Vader slipped up and leaked more emotions into his head, the received impression would be vague.

_This is my heart,_ Vader had wanted to say. _You cannot have it, because it is dead. But I wish it were otherwise._

That was what he'd wanted to say last night, at least. This morning, he mostly wished he was _more_ dead.

"Em-four," he subvocalized, feeling pain even from the tiniest movements of his mouth.

"Good morning, Lord Vader. I am definitely looking at your vitals this morning, whew-ee. You want your breakthrough painkiller, right?"

"Yes."

It was good of her not to make him say more syllables than necessary. And good of her not to say "I told you so"; she had warned him not to overstrain himself. Frequently, when things like this happened, M4 _did_ say "I told you so," and Vader threatened to break her apart for scrap, pain or no pain. Perhaps she was learning.

"Just the usual, no stimulant, right, Lord Vader?"

"Correct."

The breakthrough painkiller helped on mornings like this, but at a cost. It made him sleepy and worsened his problems with impulse control. He'd probably sleep through the whole morning he'd intended to spend with Tarkin, but then he'd wake feeling slightly less terrible.

When Vader had a morning like this on a mission - something where he'd be required to go out and fight or fly a spaceship - he took a stimulant along with the painkiller and forced himself onward, knowing it would lead to a worse crash later. But he categorically refused to do so at home, even for visitors. If he couldn't _actually_ rest at home, then there was no place where he could.

"Okay, Lord Vader. It's all set up and coming in through your primary IV now. You should feel the effect in a minute or two. Let me know right away if you need anything else, okay?"

He felt sleepy already. Tarkin would miss him, but that couldn't be helped. Vader's disability was an unavoidable hazard and he wasn't interested in fucking anyone who couldn't deal with it. He'd feel better later, and they'd see what they could salvage out of the rest of the day. Meanwhile, Tarkin would find a way to entertain himself. Or Palpatine and the servants would do it for him.

Maybe Palpatine would strike this morning while Vader was drugged asleep, and he wouldn't have to watch it happen.

He knew, of course, that Palpatine would never be so merciful. But he could dream.

*

"My utmost apologies, Grand Moff," Vaneé said, bowing even more elaborately as usual as he entered the dining hall. "Lord Vader wishes me to inform you that he is presently indisposed."

Tarkin had been picking at his breakfast. It was a perfectly good breakfast. Some fluffy construction involving eggs - where did Mustafar get a supply of fresh  _eggs?_ What unearthly lava-tolerant creature laid them? - and, if Tarkin was being honest, a somewhat larger mug of caf than what he usually permitted himself. He was a little on edge.

Last night had not gone well. He'd wanted to worm his way in past Vader's mental defenses. He'd succeeded, in a way, only to reveal a wall of pain. A flat denial of the hopes Tarkin hadn't quite been ready to name. A bitterness so deep that Vader had called himself _dead._ Tarkin honestly didn't know what to do with that.

And then that odd vision, the one he wasn't supposed to ask about and didn't understand. If only he could sense emotions the way Vader did. He would have felt Vader's wistfulness then, some hint of the attachment he really had. A small bit of brightness that Vader, fixed as he was on the Dark Side, couldn't directly speak of.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps Tarkin had been making all that up. Anyone could become deluded when they wanted strongly enough to believe something. Perhaps Vader wasn't fond of him at all, except as a convenient toy, the way he'd always said. Maybe Tarkin should try taking those statements at face value.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said neutrally, returning his attention to Vaneé. "Please convey to him my sympathies."

"I believe he has gone back to sleep, Grand Moff, but I will convey that to him when I can. Is there anything further I may do for you?"

Let's say that it was true. Say Vader wasn't interested in anything from Tarkin but their usual rough, cruel, competitive sex. Would Tarkin still want that to continue? Yes, he supposed he would. He liked Vader, in spite of everything, and the sex was spectacular.

Maybe no more visits to Mustafar, though. Maybe back to just meeting on spaceships when they could. This entire fortress seemed like much more trouble than it was worth.

Something about this fortress still nagged at him. Some question he still couldn't consciously formulate. It had to do with something last night, too, some detail of Vader's phrasing or of the vision he'd seen. But he couldn't focus enough to work out _which_ detail. When he tried to think rationally about it, his thoughts only slid back to how disappointed he was.

Vaneé could satisfy some of his curiosity, at least.

Tarkin gestured to one of the empty chairs. "Sit with me a while, if you would, Vaneé. I'd be happier with some conversation. And I'm curious about a few things, if you'll indulge me."

"Of course, Grand Moff."

Vaneé bowed his head in acknowledgment and sat at the table where Tarkin had indicated, his eyes remaining downcast. There was a hesitance in his posture, and he did not initiate any friendly chat.

Good man, Tarkin thought. Too professional to disobey a request, however politely phrased. But too intelligent to mistake being invited to sit with his superiors for an honor or a kindness, let alone an opportunity to relax. Particularly with superiors like Tarkin.

"Tell me more about Lord Vader," Tarkin began, without preamble. "I've known him for some time, but I confess I still don't know as much as I'd like about his life outside work. Does this sort of thing happen often?"

"Somewhat, yes. His health fluctuates."

"That must be alarming to work with."

"Not particularly, Grand Moff. There is little real danger to him, and our protocols are clear. Usually he is improved by the end of the day."

"That's good to know. Do you think I'll get to see him?"

"That will be up to him as always, Grand Moff."

Tarkin took the last few leisurely bites of his eggs. Vaneé was behaving well. Answering the questions blandly and truthfully - as far as Tarkin could tell - without making any false assurances or delving into information personal to his master. The only small elaborations he'd made were those relevant to Tarkin's plan for his visit and his worries for Vader's wellbeing, and even those, he'd given without inappropriate detail.

That meant Tarkin could probe a little further, if he wanted to, and trust that Vaneé would continue to handle himself appropriately. He wouldn't be putting Vaneé's life in danger if he strayed too close to some matter Vader didn't want disclosed, nor would he attract Vader's anger himself, so long as he was careful and polite.

"I'm curious about this fortress. It seems like such an odd place to live. How do you servants find it?"

"Well enough, Grand Moff. Our needs are provided for."

"It's the three of you, I take it? You and Giana and Kal?"

"As you say. And the Royal Guards."

Tarkin was faintly jealous. Tarkin only merited Royal Guards a couple of times a year, at the very most formal ceremonies in which he presided as the Outer Rim's governor. He hadn't _seen_ any Royal Guards here, but apparently Vader just had a few permanently lying around in case they were needed. Then again, maybe Vaneé was subtly pulling his leg. He wouldn't put that past him.

"Fewer servants than I anticipated for such an important place," Tarkin observed. "Are your duties arduous, then?"

"I have no complaints, Grand Moff."

Of course he didn't. Complaining would be disloyal. "What sort of things do you do when there aren't visitors to detain you? Do you specialize? Maintenance, cleaning, inventory, medical duties?

Vaneé's eyes flicked up briefly to Tarkin's, as if suppressing some amusement. "Little enough, actually. We have administrative and ceremonial roles and are on call to respond to any unexpected events, but for those duties you mentioned, Lord Vader prefers droids. I believe he'd dispense with humans altogether if protocol allowed."

Hm. Tarkin was beginning to understand. He'd wondered what sort of people would agree to live as Darth Vader's servants, out here on such an isolated, inhospitable world. He'd at first wondered if it was a punishment detail, like the dreary and isolated military postings to which Tarkin sometimes sent officers who annoyed him. But that didn't quite work; Vader was simply too important, his needs too high-security and specialized. Substandard people wouldn't serve him correctly.

A new possibility now presented itself. Career servants, highly skilled, loyal to the Empire and experienced with the needs of its higher echelons, but ill or old or burning out. Ready to retire, but not quite financially able to do so. Tired of Coruscant's bustle, and in particular, tired of its crowds of other people. Misanthropic servants, really, who could relate to that aspect of Vader's personality. Interested in a prestigious job with lighter duties, somewhere more secluded, serving an employer who spent most of his days leaving them alone. People who didn't mind lava or loneliness much, and who didn't scare easy. That last one, perhaps, most of all.

"Hm," he said. "And how long have you been working here? Is there much turnover?"

Which was the politest way Tarkin could think of to ask, _how often does he murder you, exactly?_

"Fifteen years, Grand Moff. Since the fortress was relatively new. Kal is the newest; he's been here for three."

That was not what Tarkin had expected. If he'd held off on strangling any of them for three whole years, then Vader had much more patience for servants than he ever had for officers and contractors.

He wasn't sure exactly what that implied about Vader, really. Maybe servants were just harder to replace.

Tarkin took a sip of his caf. Kal, as if summoned by name, emerged to refill both that and the water. Tarkin watched as Vaneé and Kal silently met each other's eyes. The exchange was so understated that Tarkin couldn't read it, whatever message of encouragement or amusement or sympathy it might contain.

"How often do you have visitors, then? If that's your busiest time?"

"Not often, Grand Moff. The Emperor visits once per season, if his schedule allows. Other official visitors arrive perhaps twice a galactic year. A bit more if something very important is happening. Personal visitors, like yourself... vary. Three a year, maybe, on average. But he doesn't invite people here often; he can be territorial."

"You don't say." Tarkin looked into his caf dourly as Kal tiptoed back out of the room. Maybe that _had_ been his mistake. Maybe, exactly literally as Vader had told him, he should not have come here. Everything had been fine before. "Three different people, or do the same ones repeat?"

"I couldn't say, Grand Moff. It varies."

So Vaneé wasn't permitted to tell him anything precise about other visitors. Fair enough. It was, by definition, personal. But Tarkin was feeling too spiteful not to push just a little bit more. "And how many of them survive?"

Vaneé raised his eyebrows slightly. Tarkin stared back. He'd said what he'd said.

"For official visitors," Vaneé said, "apart from the Emperor, of course, the casualty rate is about one in six. Higher if they arrive uninvited. All the personal visitors I've seen in the time I've been here have survived. There have been injuries and close calls that would raise both those numbers higher, of course. But those stories aren't mine to tell."

Tarkin's mouth quirked. "One in six. I'm slightly impressed you had that number off the top of your head."

Vaneé looked down at the table, somehow bashful. "We do keep track, Grand Moff. We, ah, have a betting pool."

"Really?" How amusing. Of course they did. And it would be a pastime Vader knew of and openly tolerated, or he wouldn't have mentioned it so freely, bashful or not. "Then what are my odds?"

"Quite high, Grand Moff. You have the Emperor's favor, after all."

Tarkin took another slow sip of his caf, irrationally annoyed with everything. The Emperor's favor, as always, but perhaps not Vader's. Perhaps that really was all that had kept him in one piece.

He heard Vaneé push his chair back from the table and looked up. "Please forgive me, Grand Moff. There are other matters to which I must attend."

"Of course. Thank you for having indulged me."

He didn't know if Vaneé actually had to do something or if it was a polite lie. He hardly cared, really. He took out his datapad and tried to refocus. If he was being left alone for the morning, then at least he could make some progress on the Project Stardust report.

His mind did start to wander, though, after twenty or thirty more pages of Krennic's blather. He wasn't as enthusiastic as he'd been yesterday morning, even about this.

He thought about Vader's other personal visitors - three per year, apparently - and the additional partners he had at the club he attended. This was an irrational thing to think about, and it annoyed him even further that it was where his mind went. Jealousy wasn't going to help matters. Vader having other partners wasn't the problem. Vader and Tarkin not wanting the same things, _that_ was a problem. Tarkin not knowing what to do or where to go from here. That was the real problem.

But his mind kept circling back to all those other anonymous people, the ones neither Vader nor Vaneé would tell him anything useful about. The ones, last night, whom Tarkin had called unworthy. Who hadn't been able to teach Vader good habits, to demand his respect, to push back. Those people, Tarkin was irrationally convinced, had still somehow had better visits with Vader than his own.

And maybe that was all Vader wanted, after all. People who didn't challenge him. People who didn't know him. People too starstruck to do anything but want him and fear him and go home pleased with themselves for surviving. People who didn't want anything more complex than to be ravished by a deadly sorcerer in a mask.

Tarkin tried to picture people like that. One person like that. He could handle one. A girl, he decided; he knew Vader's partners weren't limited by gender, and he felt irrationally a little less jealous if it was a girl.

A girl who came to Mustafar, no matter how waifish in appearance or manner, would not be just anyone. She'd need to be, first, someone with the means and the knowledge to find Vader at the sex club, when his attendance there was still not public knowledge. Unless she was _very_ starstruck and _very_ resourceful, that would mean someone already familiar with the high echelons of the Outer Rim's kink community. She'd need to be bold enough to make her way there and approach him despite... well, despite literally everything everyone knew about Darth Vader. That meant reasonable courage and confidence, someone accustomed to calculated risk. Or someone equally as impulsive as Vader; that would do it, too. Next, she'd need to attract his attention. Tarkin didn't know enough about Vader's preferences to know what that entailed. Nor exactly how fierce the competition would be. And finally, once Vader had taken her to some room at the club and fucked her, he'd have to find the experience memorable enough to be worth repeating. To, eventually, invite her here.

Maybe he'd been too harsh before, all those thoughts he'd had about starstruck people too frightened to set real boundaries. Standing up to Vader completely was a rare talent, but even if Vader's other partners lacked it, they'd still have to be moderately formidable even to get this far.

Such people were never going to go away. Even if last night had gone wonderfully - even if everything went very wonderfully for a very long time - Tarkin knew he could never ask Vader for monogamy. Vader literally couldn't get off by himself, and Tarkin's job was always going to take him away for long periods, weeks or sometimes even months at a time.

So, a girl, then - he might as well picture it. A brave, hungry, resourceful girl who had come to Mustafar for just one thing, and was undoubtedly having a better time of it than Tarkin was.

He imagined Pali dropping the girl off, as politely expressionless as she'd been with Tarkin. Why not. There were presumably only so many civilian transport pilots in the Outer Rim who had enough security clearances to approach Fortress Vader. Maybe it was always Pali.

The girl would walk down the loading ramp and over the lava river, as Tarkin had, while Pali - and her escape route - flew away. She wouldn't have the specific negative associations with lava that Tarkin did, but she'd know to be cautious of it, and cautious of what she was doing. She'd have notified a friend about where she was going and when she expected to be back. More for closure than for safety; in the event that a submissive did fail to return from Mustafar, her next of kin would have no real recourse, but at least they'd know what happened.

She'd be wearing something nice. A short dress, perhaps, clinging to her skin in the oppressive heat. Vader would come out to greet her, the reddish light glinting off his polished mask. She'd already be holding back shivers of mingled desire and fear, which, of course, was just what Vader liked.

There wouldn't be any rigmarole with gifts. He'd simply ask her if she was ready, if she wanted him now. Already feeling the heat of the answer that radiated from her. And she'd say, properly, with her mouth, _yes._

He'd lift her up in the air. All the way up. She'd suck in a panicked breath as she realized what he was doing. He'd suspend her on her back, slightly arched, not above the catwalk but above the river itself. Lower her down, just far enough to feel the river's heat on her exposed shoulders, like the burn of a hot summer sun.

She wouldn't be able to see him from that position. She'd barely hear his breath over the river's roar. But she'd feel him all over her, the tight press of the Force, inching its way down every particle of skin, as Vader's senses slipped into hers.

Come to think of it, if Vader fucked women, Vader would need to adjust his senses to fit into female bodies. He'd know what it felt like to be fucked in a woman's body, how it felt to have sensitive breasts and a tight wet cunt begging for use. Maybe that was strange for him. A disorienting feeling that he tolerated because his attraction to women was so strong. Or perhaps he found it terribly exciting.

He'd strip the dress from her, letting it flutter down past her field of view before stowing it safely on the platform. She'd have to trust that he hadn't simply released it to the river to burn. He'd do the same with whatever she wore underneath, leaving her naked and trembling helplessly in the air.

The pain would start then, crackling impacts like the ones Tarkin was used to. All down the back of her body to begin with, as if they rose up from the river itself, across her shoulders and back, her hips and the backs of her thighs. Between them he'd tease her, caress her face and her bared throat, her collarbones, her breasts, the gentle curve of her belly. Before he dipped in to work, slow and merciless, at her hard wet clit.

Vader wouldn't talk much. The imaginary girl wouldn't make him. But _she'd_ talk, in bursts, incoherently. She'd say things like, _please, Lord Vader, fuck, yes, please, please, don't stop._ She'd be the kind of girl who had no problem begging.

Of course he wouldn't stop.

It would go on in a rhythm, pain and pleasure and the pleading, urgent sounds she made. Sometimes he'd drop her an inch, just to feel heat and panic blank her out for a moment, just to feel her scream.

He'd press inside her only when she begged for it prettily enough. Or maybe he wouldn't, at first, until he'd made her come once already, heard her shriek of pleasure echo out across the lava plains. _Then_ he'd take her cunt, quick and hard. He'd push her to the edge a second time, a third - a lot of women could keep going like that, if you knew what you were doing.

He wouldn't ever stop. Not until she was worn ragged, tears mixing with sweat on her cheeks. Not until the tone of her pleading changed. _Please, Lord Vader, I - I can't, it's too much, I -_

But that wasn't her safeword, so he'd keep going another minute, bring her off brokenly one more time, just to be cruel.

_Then_ he'd stop. He'd lift her gently back to that rounded platform, set her down in a tangled heap, filthy and trembling.

"You did well for me, my toy," Vader would say - this was Tarkin's fantasy, after all, he could at least _pretend_ that Vader remembered to say things like that.

She'd try to murmur something back, in thanks or adoration, but her mouth wouldn't quite be cooperating.

Then Vader would turn on his heel and walk back into his fortress, black cloak billowing behind him, because sometimes Vader was really an oaf about things.

A pair of maintenance droids would come out after a minute with a thin black blanket. They'd drape it over the girl to preserve a little modesty, since she didn't presently have the werewithal to dress. Then Vaneé, a minute later, would approach. She'd trust Vaneé, with his careful, downcast manner. He'd pick up her clothes and luggage for her and lead her to her room. Let her lean on his arm, clutching the blanket around herself. Make sure she could walk to the fresher before collapsing. Then she'd rest very soundly, once she was clean, until morning.

She'd be set to go back home in the morning, Tarkin supposed. Why not, since she'd gotten all she'd come for. Or maybe she'd linger for a day and just do the same thing over again a few times. But she'd leave eventually, satisfied, since her needs were simple. She'd wake up and look around at the pointlessly intimidating guest room and she'd shiver happily, because she liked feeling small.

Vader would be there for her in the morning, though. She deserved that much. He'd walk her to the landing pad where Pali's shuttle was waiting. She'd follow, like a cadet on a date, as starstruck as before, but demanding nothing.

"Will I see you again?" she'd ask.

And Vader would say -

There was the small telltale sound of the lift opening out in the hall, and Tarkin abruptly realized that he'd been staring into space for who knew how long, absorbed in his fantasy. He glanced down at his datapad; it was still on the page from Krennic's report where he'd left it. It was nearing lunchtime.

Well, that lost time hadn't been entirely fruitless, at least. His mood had improved.

The door swished open, and Vaneé entered, bowing again. "Lord Vader is awake and improved, Grand Moff, but it will be another hour at least before he is ready to see you. My apologies again for the inconvenience. May I interest you in lunch?"

Tarkin made a careless, accepting gesture, like a responsible person with important duties who had definitely been focused on work this entire time. "That would be lovely, thank you, Vaneé."

Perhaps that girl in Tarkin's imagination had the right idea, after all. Perhaps he should enjoy what was offered and stop trying so hard.

He refocused on Krennic's file and settled in to read about the galaxy's kyber supply chains while lunch arrived.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A joy ride in Vader's second-favorite airspeeder takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I peeked at the word count and this is technically a novel-length fic now?! I am slightly flabbergasted at myself. When I sat down back in January and said "ok but what would sex with Darth Vader be like," I did NOT imagine there was a whole novel about it in me. Nor did I expect all the FEELS THAT WOULD SHOW UP, augh.
> 
> I'm along for this ride, though. It makes me very happy that you guys are along for it, too.
> 
> Meanwhile: This chapter is a mean tease.

When Vader woke up again, his pain had receded closer to its usual levels. He reached out with the Force to sense that everything was in its proper place: the Royal Guards stationed next to his tank, the servants quietly going about their business. Tarkin sitting in the dining hall, lost in some vaguely unpleasant train of thought. The lava river, bright and strong, below him.

He didn't want to get up immediately; it was better to linger a little on days like this, make sure his body was working correctly in the tank before he tried the suit. He listened to his breath, that steady rhythm in and out, and let himself drop into meditation.

Sith meditation wasn't about thinking, only expanding the senses and _feeling_. Vader's petty complaints faded into the background. He was not his mind's worries, nor his body. He was the lava river, a burning momentum stronger than anything in its path. He was the rock and the magma caves below it, so naturally strong in the Dark Side. Anger and selfish passion, filling the very earth with their power. Below even that, he was Mustafar's core, past magma, a ball of iron so compressed and superheated that its nature defied imagination.

He was the sky above, too, a little clearer after last night's storm. The smoke that rose from the molten ground. The threatening clouds that churned overhead, a darkness that hid the world's glow. And above that, the cold hungry vacuum of space, an emptiness broken by rock and burning stars.

All this was, at least in metaphor, the Dark Side: inhospitable, intense, so much vaster and stronger than the Light. Everything alive and soft was merely a surface film, clinging precariously between the Dark's extremes. That was particularly the case on Mustafar, but it was true everywhere. The Dark Side's power was Vader's true birthright. It had chosen him, created him. Nothing else mattered.

Vader stayed like that for a long time, soaking it in. He liked meditation, as much as fighting or flying or sex. But his thinking mind crept back in eventually. Reminded him that Tarkin was waiting. He couldn't stay in his tank forever.

Tarkin was waiting and, of course, so was Palpatine.

In meditation, suspended between the lava and the stars, Vader could think about that more clearly. Palpatine had promised to hurt Tarkin. He would do it today, once Vader was awake and could see it. Or tonight. Or maybe tomorrow morning.

Tarkin would be hurt, and it would be Vader's fault, for getting so attached that -

Well, no, actually. It wouldn't be.

Vader wasn't supposed to have real relationships. But Palpatine's plan wasn't a punishment; it was a lesson. He had said that Tarkin wasn't a threat. That he would not have bothered correcting Vader about it, if not for what he'd foreseen.

If Vader had never been with Tarkin or anyone else, Palpatine still would have foreseen the same thing. There would still be a painful lesson on its way, as inevitable as the lava's flow and the stars' slow orbit.

There was nothing he could do to change that. Trying only made things worse. He'd made things worse all this visit, letting his fear make him cruel to Tarkin, pushing him away. All that was Vader's damage, not Palpatine's. Palpatine's hadn't even started yet.

A new thought, treacherously, occurred to him.

What if Palpatine wasn't _going_ to start?

Palpatine had lied about his plans before. Hidden them. Made promises and threats he had no intention of keeping. Maybe Palpatine wasn't actually going to do anything. Maybe he hadn't foreseen a damn thing. Maybe he'd said what he said to Vader just to see what Vader did about it.

Just to watch Vader ruin everything his damn self.

Yes. Palpatine _would_ find that more amusing, wouldn't he.

He wasn't sure if this new thought was true. But now that he had it, the way was clear. Forget about Palpatine. _Fuck_ Palpatine. Get dressed, find Tarkin, and take what he wanted, the way lava rivers took what lay in their path. Forget the rest. If some disaster did occur, it would be the same thing that would have happened anyway, and at least Vader would be a little happier first. And if it didn't, then Vader would be victorious. For once in his life, however belatedly, he'd have beaten Palpatine at Palpatine's game.

He refocused on his breath. Let his self and his senses gradually return to his body.

"Em-four," he subvocalized.

"Right here, Lord Vader. Feeling any better?"

"Prepare my suit."

*

Tarkin was still waiting for him in the dining hall. Straight and correct in his chair, the lunch dishes long since cleared away, reading his datapad. His mood was off - Vader could feel that as soon as he walked in.

Tarkin raised his gaze to Vader's. "Feeling better now, I see."

To say Vader had a _plan_ would have been overstating it. Lava rivers didn't plan; they just flowed forward. What he'd clung to for the interminable hour while M4 dressed him had been more of an assumption than a plan. He would stride into this room and make everything better. Push Tarkin up against the wall and take him hard, and then... He wasn't sure what happened then, but he'd imagined that once they were enjoying themselves again, last night's distress would melt away.

But Tarkin's mind felt different from before. Closed-off, resentful and impatient and resigned. Tarkin was frequently annoyed with Vader, but it had never quite felt like this. There had always been a dryly playful element, a combativeness that could turn receptive if Vader met it correctly. That wasn't there today.

Of course it wasn't. Vader had broken Tarkin's heart last night and left him to stew in the wreckage.

He couldn't undo it. Palpatine or no Palpatine, everything he'd said last night had been true. But he could press forward. Lava rivers didn't balk when the landscape changed. They redirected if necessary and flowed on.

"Neither of us enjoys being kept waiting," Vader acknowledged. "It was unavoidable, but I wish to make it up to you. Is there something you have wished to do?"

Tarkin looked at him skeptically. He put away his datapad, which he'd kept out on the table a little longer than normal.

"I don't know. You're the one who keeps telling me I'm only here for one thing. I shouldn't think you'd need instruction."

This was possibly the least appealing sexual proposition Vader had ever received. The words weren't the problem - Vader had other submissives who might have said nearly the same thing in a spirit of real flirtation. People who _liked_ that they were only toys. That wasn't what this was. Tarkin's tone was light and casual, but the emotion underlying the words was so bitter that it took Vader aback.

He had called Tarkin a toy many times, both in appreciation and in anger. But, before, that hadn't provoked anything worse than Tarkin's usual self-possessed annoyance. Now it was a point of such genuine pain that Vader couldn't even tell if the offer was sincere.

Vader was so dependent, during sex, on what his partners felt. There were types of negative emotion he could handle. Types of fear and rage and even anguish from his partners that he could sadistically enjoy. This wasn't one of them. Vader couldn't fuck Tarkin like this any more than he could drink sewage.

But emotions were temporary. Vader only had to find a way to replace this bitter mood with a different one.

"I have a different idea today," he said. "You asked me earlier what I did for fun. There is one thing I neglected to mention. I would like to show it to you now."

That did provoke a spark of cautious interest. Good. He was on the right track. "What would that thing be?"

"Follow me to the first floor," said Vader, "and I will show you."

*

The door to Vader's workshop opened with a hiss, and they walked through. It was dark and cavernous and intimidating like everything else, but the effect was muted by a general sense of comfortable disorder. Comfortable to Vader, anyway; he wasn't sure what Tarkin would think.

The space was a maze of work tables and shelves, closed and open boxes of machine parts. Half-finished projects occupied several tables: a few damaged training remotes, a deactivated maintenance droid in the midst of upgrades, a disassembled high-end speeder engine. Parts lay scattered around them in random piles. Vader's servants, by his own order, didn't clean this room, and he wasn't an especially tidy person without them.

He heard Tarkin's small _huh_ of interest behind him, and the corresponding small shift in Tarkin's emotions.

"I mentioned to you that I enjoy machines," said Vader. "I do not come here often; I have training and meditation, real work to do. But occasionally I relax here and build something."

This wasn't something he showed many submissives; he was self-conscious about it, territorial. But Vader had liked to build and fix things since he was very young. His first owners, as a child, had capitalized on his skills; the Jedi Order had focused on other things, but had let him play around in the guts of their less-important ships when he wasn't busy. Palpatine, by contrast, would have preferred for this room not to exist. Creation and repair were the opposite of the Dark Side, and hobbies were a distraction.

They'd eventually come to a compromise, the same as they had about sex. The workshop was allowed. But too much time there at once and Palpatine would decide that Vader was clearly bored and needed further Dark Side training, often of various painful types.

Fuck Palpatine, though, really.

Tarkin took soft cautious steps through the room, turning his head to examine the general mess. He avoided touching anything, but he seemed pleased. "You mentioned a workshop when you were listing the fortress's rooms, but I wasn't sure if the work was yours. I've never heard you speak of this directly. It's good for hobbyist work."

Tarkin never built anything himself, but he did administrate most of the Empire's military R&D, including projects that involved droids, so he knew at least vaguely what he was talking about.

"It is... not relevant to the Dark Side," said Vader. "And not useful to the Empire. An indulgence."

"Well, there's no shame in self-indulgence. Sometimes the best way to stay sharp at one's work is to spend a while interested in something else."

Palpatine's opinions weren't the only reason why Vader kept this room private. Most submissives would not have responded to it appropriately. There were the overly starstruck ones, who would have feigned delight over every half-finished oddity just because it was Vader's. There were the libidinous types who would be openly bored because this wasn't sex. Others would simply have nodded at everything, attentive but uncomprehending. A precious few shared Vader's interests, but even these could be tricky; they had an odd habit of latching on and trying too hard to prove they understood. As if Vader picked favorites based on how good they were at his pointless hobby, and not how good they were at sex.

Tarkin knew him, though. Vader trusted Tarkin to appreciate this for nothing more or less than what it was.

Tarkin paused by the maintenance droid. "What are these? I've seen them at work on your lower levels, but I don't think I've encountered the model before."

"They are heat-work specialists, built here on Mustafar. Their frames are carbonite. Mining corporations use them for minor landscaping and building maintenance, while heavier-duty variants do the mining itself. I did not construct ours, but I modify them for my needs."

Tarkin nodded. "Customizing a droid takes expert skill, I'm told."

"My skills are out of date, but they serve." And his droids tended to end up with strange mental disorders - M4-R3K was one of the _least_ eccentric, really - but he wasn't going to admit that now. "Come this way."

They picked their way through the general mess to the furthest table, where a large engine lay half-assembled.

"This is the repulsorlift from a Narglatch XJ-10. I have been attempting to improve its acceleration."

Tarkin looked down at it critically. "I'm not as familiar with airspeeders. Was it slow to accelerate before?"

Vader gave him a very flat look. Or tried to; with the mask on, he couldn't do that eye-narrowing thing Tarkin always did. "You have seen me fly."

Tarkin's gaze flicked up to him, amused now. "True. So I'll assume it was already the fastest model you could find, and now you're working on overloading its engines so you can practice even more suicidal stunts than before."

"Better."

And it _was_ better. Tarkin's feelings had improved considerably. That strange bitterness wasn't gone, but it had receded to the edges. Tarkin had better-than-average emotional regulation, but even Tarkin wouldn't be recovering so quickly unless he were intentionally trying to do so. Choosing to take the prompts Vader offered, focusing on them in preference to his other concerns. Tarkin might be snippy, but he _wanted_ to enjoy the afternoon. Vader just had to help keep him distracted.

"Have I ever told you how the hangar crews complain when you do anything important in your TIE fighter?" Tarkin asked. "Loudly enough that it usually reaches _me._ Half the time, even if you didn't take direct fire, you drive that thing so hard that half its components need service."

"But I get results."

"Oh, that you do. Are airspeeders similar enough to fighters that the skills transfer? Or is this another thing you do just to relax?"

"It all helps. Flight of any kind hones my reflexes." Which meant Palpatine was, in turn, less annoyed by random airspeeder joyrides than he was by the workshop. Sometimes Vader could explain his mechanical experiments as necessary maintenance for the vehicles he trained in. It worked less well for droids, though. "I have flown stranger things than these. I used to podrace."

Oh, and _that_ got the desired reaction. Tarkin focused entirely on him in amused disbelief. "You did not. That's for aliens."

"You have seen me fly. You know I could do it."

"The entire point of podracing is that it's a sport so dangerous no human can compete. It's popular among the sort of rabble who only want to watch a lot of hastily-cobbled-together vehicles crash and explode. I don't care if you _could_ do it. If a human Jedi had been running around entering podraces, the media would never have let it go. Also, the Jedi Order wouldn't have let you."

"This was earlier in my career."

He wasn't going to actually _tell_ this story - he never told stories from before he was Vader - but it was amusing to watch Tarkin flail, trying to construct the mental picture and coming up short.

"What, when you were a youngling? If you're going to lie to impress me, make it  _somewhat_ plausible." He turned and inspected some minute part of the disassembled speeder engine. "Did you win?"

"Of course I did." Vader paused. "Once."

"Just once, hm? Who beat you the other times? Or are you going to tell me you only competed the once?"

"If I am lying to you, then it doesn't matter." Vader stepped closer to Tarkin, "I should take you flying. Then you will believe."

Tarkin felt closer to normal every minute. If Vader had wanted to initiate sex now - spread him out on one of these tables like a misbehaving repair project, or up against one of his fully assembled vehicles in the hangar - he could probably have made it work. But Vader wanted to be thorough. Significant pains required significant remedies. He didn't just want Tarkin vaguely back to normal. He wanted Tarkin _happy._

Tarkin raised his eyebrows. "Flying at the hair-raising speeds _you_ favor, through an unstable lava landscape, in a tiny craft? I think most submissives, faced with that option, would prefer to believe anything you said."

"Flatterer." Vader shifted; he knew Tarkin liked it when he loomed. "You keep mentioning my other submissives. Last night you accused them of using me as a thrill ride. Perhaps you are the one who requires a thrill."

Except that last bit seemed to have been a misstep. Tarkin lifted his chin, engaged by the challenge, but there was that odd, resigned feeling in it again.

"I'm aware I can be difficult to thrill," said Tarkin.

"I am counting on it," said Vader.

*

Tarkin had expected Vader's hangar to be larger, but of course, Tarkin was used to the military kind. Rows on rows of TIEs packed together in the belly of a Star Destroyer, ready to be deployed en masse. Vader didn't need anything like that at home.

Instead the door from the workshop opened out on a roofed space, open at the sides to Mustafar's obnoxiously hot air. A short runway protruded out over the clifftop; nearer in, there was an open space marked with lines where several vehicles sat parked. Two of these, apart from the garish black and red paint jobs, looked like ordinary household speeders with good luggage capacity, the kind that Vader's servants might use to nip in to the nearest settlement for supplies. Two others were hot rods: sleek, small, heavily customized. One space held a TIE fighter with curled-in wings, a replica of Vader's personal fighter for him to train in. The final one lay empty, presumably awaiting the disassembled XJ-10's return.

Tarkin had not meant to be as snippy as he'd been. His little sexual fantasy this morning had briefly lifted his mood, but the effect hadn't lasted. He had decided to keep things simple and enjoy himself, and it annoyed him that his base emotions weren't cooperating.

_Vader_ was cooperating, though, which was... strange.

He'd suggested non-sexual activities of his own, for once. He'd shown Tarkin the workshop, which was clearly a place he didn't show to people often. He'd seemed almost bashful about the workshop, although the idea of a bashful Vader halfway broke Tarkin's brain. There was an image Vader liked to maintain, a vision of himself as death incarnate, and sitting around fixing droids wasn't consistent with that, any more than going to the opera would have been.

But Vader had shown it to Tarkin, and that had been a gift. That and last night's vision both. Intimate, sensitive, pleasant things, offered up as if in apology. By a man who _almost_ never apologized.

Vader was making it clear he did want Tarkin to be happy. Perhaps he really was attached, deep down, the way Tarkin had thought or perhaps he felt guilty for  _not_ being attached, or maybe it was just that sex worked better this way. One couldn't pleasure oneself with a broken toy.

The reason didn't matter. Vader had made his position clear. Tarkin could keep insisting Vader felt something for him, but after a certain point it would sound more desparate than knowing. If Vader felt something that he was too frightened or traumatized or too rigidly obsessed with the Dark Side to act upon, then that was Vader's business. Vader would offer what he offered, and Tarkin would choose to enjoy it. Or not.

"This way," said Vader, leading him to one of the faster speeders. "This is my second favorite airspeeder." His favorite, presumably, being the disassembled one.

The airspeeder had an open cockpit - no chance of air conditioning, then - and looked barely large enough for two. The shape overall resembled a flared teardrop. A pair of blocky-looking, heavily modified engines protruded slightly from underneath.

Vader opened the door for him, and Tarkin crammed himself into the passenger seat, doing up the safety restraints at his waist. "I'm fairly sure I'm going to regret this."

"Nonsense. You are safe in my hands. Or do you doubt me?"

Tarkin looked at him sidelong. "Always."

Vader set himself up in the pilot's chair. The airspeeder probably _was_ a decent size for two people, except that the designers had been thinking of regular people and not someone Vader's size. They ended up squashed together slightly, Vader pressing sideways into him, particularly at the shoulder. Vader wasn't the cuddling type, and Tarkin had rarely had an extended opportunity to feel the suit's material brush against him. It wasn't quite as pleasant as pressing up against a partner in normal clothes, but there wasn't anything terribly exotic or offputting about it, either. More like leaning on someone in a heavy coat, or in armor. Well, it _was_ armor, of course.

Vader prodded the controls and the speeder sprang to life, bright lights and readouts displaying its status. He fired the engines. There was a brief taxi as he maneuvered the speeder out of its parking spot and lined it up with the runway.

Then they burst forward. _Fast._ Tarkin was pressed back in his seat, as firmly as any hold Vader ever had on him with the Force. The runway raced by them in a blur and they were out in the air, off the cliff, set loose at top speed into Mustafar's stormy red-gray skies.

For a moment it was pleasant. The air whipped past them, taking the edge off its heat. Vader's hands on the controls were steady, smooth. The half-molten ground and the shrouded sky enclosed them, two halves of a shell.

Then, without warning, Vader _dived._

Tarkin's hands clenched involuntarily. The ground came up at them even faster than the runway had receded. He hadn't had a proper look at the base of the cliff before, but it was rushing straight up at his face now: a whole boiling _lake_ of lava, which pooled and collected under the fortress's waterfall, before fanning out into a series of shallow rivers.

He had only a second to take that all in, and then with a deft flick of Vader's hands, they leveled out only meters above the lake's surface, speeding back toward the cliff.

Tarkin worked hard at controlling his breathing. It had only been a single dive. He wasn't going to be undone  _that_ easily, not even if it brought yesterday's nightmare-vision back to mind.

If laughter was physically possible for Vader, Tarkin suspected, he'd be laughing at him now. "Have I mentioned that I like your fear?"

"Once or twice, yes."

They zoomed towards the cliff and flew up parallel by its face at a crazy angle, oh, Force, _sideways,_ before righting themselves a bit higher and coming in for another dive.

Vader's voice was smug. "Surely this is not all you can take. You have seen me do much worse than this in battle."

"From a _distance,_ Vader. And not in the middle of a lava lake."

"Do you believe that the vacuum of space is any safer?" Another quick turn, this time upwards, rapidly gaining altitude for whatever the next stunt was going to be. "I should go slow with you, then."

_Slow_ wasn't what Tarkin would have called the next few minutes, as Vader circled the lake over and over at his breakneck speed, corkscrewing upwards and diving repeatedly, either at the sheer rock of the cliff or at the lava itself.

"Please do try not to _actually_ kill us," he said after the fifth or sixth dive.

"I had not planned to. But since you asked." This time the speeder took a sharp turn and went careening off parallel to the cliff face, following the escarpment into the distance. There was a moment of near calm, although the land was still going by faster than Tarkin's eye could track.

And then, without any visible change in Vader's demeanor, he felt a telltale pressure, a gentle touch starting at the crown of his head and working downward. He instinctively tried to reach up, and found that his limbs were locked in place. Vader had immobilized him so lightly this time that he hadn't felt the exact moment of onset.

"What are you doing?" he said sharply.

Vader's tone was amused. "You know very well what I am doing."

"You can't possibly do this and fly at the same time."

"Do you remember what I told you about assuming something is impossible for me?"

"I don't mean it's literally impossible. Obviously you're doing it now. I mean it isn't safe to split your concentration-"

"Have faith."

It was a terrible idea, but, Force, it felt good. Adrenaline had heightened his senses, and Vader's Force-touch seemed even keener than usual on finding the sensitive spots on his body, exploiting them all. Vader teased across his chest, feeling his heart hammer - _against him_ was still the instinctive way Tarkin wanted to finish that thought, but of course it was the reverse; what Vader really felt was his pulse from within. Vader stroked the palms of his hands, maddeningly slow against the breakneck speed of the landscape; he was held securely enough that he couldn't even curl his fingers in response.

Oh, Force. They were doing this, then.

They reached an uneven stretch where the starkness of the cliff by the fortress gave way to a messier tangle of sloping crags. Vader banked and skimmed close to the rocks, darting between them. Tarkin flinched as he felt the breeze from a particularly close outcrop go straight by his head. Wanted to throw up a hand to guard his face, but, of course, Vader had both of his hands.

"You are definitely going to get us killed," Tarkin protested.

"That is not your safeword."

"At least watch where you're going. There can't possibly be enough headroom-"

"That, either," said Vader, and promptly dived in the exact direction Tarkin had hoped he wouldn't go. He turned at a sharp angle into an extremely narrow canyon, a stream of orange lava bubbling at its floor.

Tarkin tried closing his eyes, felt the fierce wind without any idea just what was going past him and how fast, decided it wasn't helping matters, and opened them again.

Vader made his leisurely progress all the way down the rest of Tarkin's body. He drew out his focus on the soles of Tarkin's feet, on the crevices between his toes, perversely slowing the faster the speeder seemed to go.

Finally he finished that. Tarkin swallowed hard, watching the way the speeder darted through the canyon as he moved to the next phase. He didn't bother lifting Tarkin in the air, as he sometimes did, or stripping him. Just made a small, deft movement with the Force, undid the buttons of Tarkin's pants, and gently moved the fabric aside to draw out his cock.

It was embarrassing how quickly Tarkin responded, growing and hardening into Vader's grasp as the hot wind whipped past. He looked over at Vader, helpless; to all appearances, Vader was still poised and focused on the airspeeder's controls.

He remembered Vader in the training room, the sheer number of raining bolts and falling objects that he'd deflected with such economy. Vader's Force abilities involved being able to focus on multiple fast-moving things at once. If anyone could do this without immediately crashing and dying, it was Vader. But that didn't make it _safe._

If Tarkin had wanted safety, of course, he wouldn't have gone for Vader in the first place.

They suddenly lurched up out of the canyon, corkscrewing around to race back the other way. Vader flew over the edge of the escarpment this time. Other lava rivers flowed here, small wild cousins to the one in the fortress's foundations. Some tumbled over the cliff in falls like that one. Others found cracks in the ground, disappeared mazily to emerge partway down or not at all. The fortress itself was far out of sight, as was any other sign of habitation. Everything was just black rock and lava under an ashy sky, as far as the eye could see.

Vader stroked him rhythmically, inexorably, and the sensation was strong. Tarkin suspected he wasn't going to last long. Vader didn't even need to hurt him; adrenaline did that part of the work for him.

"Do you do this with people often?" Tarkin sniped, trying to disguise how quick and shallow his breathing had become. "Or only when you've had difficulty making them fear sufficiently for their lives?"

"There is no need to fear for that," said Vader. "We are safer at this moment than we were in the fortress."

"Really? Why?"

"Because you are afraid."

Tarkin did not follow that logic even a little bit, but he was distracted away from further questions when Vader suddenly yanked them sideways, off the cliff's edge, into a horizontal spin. His mind became completely occupied with trying to clutch at the speeder's sides as they spun completely upside down: a useless task, since his hands still wouldn't move.

"You _cannot_  go upside down, Vader," he panted as the speeder righted itself. "You're not wearing your seat belt. This thing doesn't even have a roof."

"I am aware of that."

"You can't-"

Vader's voice was steady, amused. His grip on Tarkin's cock tightened. "Will you beg me not to?"

Oh. Now, _that_ was a clever dilemma. Tarkin didn't like to beg. It wasn't as hard a limit as choking or bodily injury, but he never enjoyed it, and he'd never done it with Vader, not even when Vader asked. He could do it now and show a kind of weakness that was fundamentally incompatible with his Theory Of Dealing With Vader. Or he could choose to endure whatever horrifying stunts Vader came up with for as long as Vader liked. Or he could safeword, of course; that was the right thing to do if he felt there was too much risk of actual harm. But that would be an admission of defeat of its own, in a way. And - although this was possibly arousal impairing Tarkin's good sense - he rather thought it would spoil the fun.

"Of course not," he responded.

"Very well," said Vader, and pulled them into another spin identical to the last.

It went on like that, spins and corkscrews and loops. Fast dives towards the ground or the lava or the cliff face, only to veer away at the last second, pressing Tarkin down into his seat or sideways against Vader's bulk. On and on. It was a good thing Tarkin wasn't prone to motion sickness, but the speed and terror overwhelmed him enough by themselves. As did Vader's Force-touch, stroking him closer and closer to completion in its own rhythm. He felt a flush rising, despite his fear.

"That is quite enough, Vader. You've made your point."

"That is not begging," said Vader.

They dived again.

The fortress had come back into view at some point while Tarkin was disoriented and not looking. But that didn't mean the torment was over. It just meant Vader could tease him with it, speeding on what looked like a trajectory home only to veer and plunge back toward the lava.

He was going to come.

The knowledge stole up on him, an ominous possibility that resolved into something more like certainty with each passing moment. He could try to stop himself, but his jangled nerves were making self-control more difficult than normal. He was going, eventually, to come. Hard. And Vader would feel it. Whether they were upside down in the middle of one of his loops, or diving straight for the deepest part of the lava lake, or whatever other awful maneuver Vader happened to be doing at the time, in which a loss of concentration could be fatal.

"Stop," he said. He meant it as a command, but it came out panting, gasping. "That's enough."

Vader sounded so pleased with himself, it was nearly a purr. "Why would you want me to stop?"

He couldn't say it. Vader could feel what he felt; there shouldn't be a _need_ to say it. Vader knew his own abilities. Vader, presumably, believed he could maintain concentration even through this. He might not be wrong. He would certainly not admit he was wrong if pressed. But-

There were better ways to handle this, he dimly knew. If he really thought coming would make Vader crash and kill them, he could use his safeword. Or he could beg; he was vaguely aware this was halfway to begging already. But his mind was already whiting out with sex and fear and overload, and what came out was a desparate chant of, "Stop this right now, Vader. Stop, stop, stop, _stop-_ "

And then, very suddenly, Vader stopped.

The grip on his cock vanished, leaving nothing but air. The force holding Tarkin's limbs in place fell away.

"As you wish," said Vader.  


The airspeeder gently slowed and came in for a landing. Dropped down, as lightly as the most graceful of birds, at the tip of the runway, and went still.

Tarkin caught his breath, letting his racing heart slow for a minute. Marveling at the deviousness of all of this. And then, as soon as his lungs were calm enough to do so, he doubled over and started to laugh uncontrollably with relief.

Vader had won this game. He'd used every tool at his disposal to distract Tarkin from his prior foul mood. And it had worked. Tarkin hadn't thought about any of the things that were bothering him since virtually the time the flight began. He was having fun.

He took a moment, once he was sure he could control his hands, to tuck himself back into his trousers and regain a semblance of dignity. He was still painfully hard. If the airspeeder had a back seat, he thought, he might have pounced Vader into it and finished things right there, like a pair of adolescents in a back alley.

But this was Vader's game. That was what Tarkin had decided. He'd take what was offered and not a thing more. And he knew Vader wouldn't keep him waiting long.

Vader climbed out of the speeder. The runway was not as narrow as the walkway at the front door; there was room for both of them beside the speeder without real risk of falling.

"There is more I have in mind for you, my toy," he said, beckoning. "Come back indoors with me."

It was Vader's game, and there was nothing Tarkin wished to do but follow.

*

Vader didn't actually have a plan. He was the lava river, boiling ahead down whatever slope felt best. He had achieved what he set out to do. He'd brought Tarkin back into a mental space they both enjoyed, an intoxicating mix of fear and lust and the will to struggle. He thought maybe he'd take him back into the entrance hall, finish what they'd started there. Or maybe - fuck, he'd gotten both of them so close, maybe he didn't even want to wait that long. Maybe in the hanger, pushed up against the wall. He'd temporarily disentangled his senses from Tarkin's so he could walk without distraction, but it would be easy enough to put them back.

And then, between one step and another as he strode down the runway, he felt it. An all-too-recognizable presence, subtle and dark, like smoke seeping in at the corners.

Palpatine.

No. No, no, no, not now. Not _fucking now._

"Vader?" said Tarkin, beside him, and he realized he'd gone still.

"Nothing," Vader said, forcing himself to move. He walked faster. If they could just make it to the end of the runway, back into the hangar, back indoors. It wouldn't be as bad if it happened indoors.

He was only a few steps from the hangar proper when he heard Tarkin's yelp of surprise. Saw through the corner of his eye as something jerked him away.

"Vader!" Tarkin shouted, pained and panicked.

Dreading what he'd see, Vader turned.

There were creatures that were said to live in Mustafar's deepest canyons. Bestial native life forms, glowing with heat, that could swim through the lava unharmed. The stuff of lava miners' nightmare legends. They never ventured close to the stabler parts of the planet where Vader lived. They certainly never climbed up the cliff into his damn lava fortress. There was nothing here they wanted; the only way they'd even think of it was as a result of someone's deliberate control.

That was what he saw now, though. A creature larger than the airspeeder, orange and hellishly luminous, made of thick ropy tentacles and a gnashing, white-hot mouth. It must have been clinging to the runway's underside, and now it had half-emerged, reaching up to grab what was above it.

It had Tarkin by the ankle.

Vader knew immediately how he could handle this if he chose. Tarkin didn't have a weapon on him, but Vader had the lightsaber that was always at his belt. It would cut through this creature as easily as it cut through anything. Failing that, he had a hangar full of multi-tonne vehicles that he could throw at its head. Or he could just Force-push it away, although that would do more collateral damage to Tarkin.

But he wasn't allowed to do any of those things. He felt Palpatine's presence, as heavy as if Palpatine had been on the runway with them. He wasn't allowed to help.

Tarkin flailed on the ground, kicking. He brought his ankle down hard against the tarmac repeatedly, trying to beat the creature into letting go. "What the hell is this thing? Get it off me!"

Smoke was rising from Tarkin's leg where the creature held him. It didn't look particularly dissuaded.

Vader stood completely still. He could not let himself move. Not with his body and not with the Force. Not even a finger. Not even when his instincts screamed at him to do so.

_I know you will not fail me in this. You will require further lessons if you do._  


Further lessons, even crueler than the present one. He knew how Palpatine worked.

The creature gave a sharp tug, jerking Tarkin by his ankle closer to the edge of the runway. It was a long, long drop from there to the lava lake, even if the creature itself didn't crunch him down. Tarkin bellowed in pain and scrabbled at the tarmac, still kicking; the rough surface drew blood from his palms. But there was nothing substantial to grab. Even Vader wasn't close enough to grab.

"What are you doing?" he shouted, pain distorting his voice. "Vader! Snap out of it and help me!"

He didn't beg, at least. Even now, Tarkin was too proud to beg, and that was a tiny mercy. Likely the only mercy either of them would be allowed.

Vader held himself still.

The creature pulled him further, feet-first, until his legs were hanging down off the edge of the runway as he scrabbled for a grip. Tiny flames licked at the fabric around his ankle, and Tarkin screamed.

Of course, Vader thought, his mind beginning to spark, to numb out entirely. Of course he was gradually sliding feet-first toward the lava. Because Palpatine wanted this to be exactly the maximum amount of upsetting that it was possible for it to be. That was why.

The world began to separate into unconnected snatches of sensory stimuli. Glowing flame-light, black ground, pain and fear and screaming.

He had to stay still. He could barely remember why, but he knew he had to. Or it would be even worse.

A new thought occurred, with the last bit of him that could think.

Maybe this wasn't the lesson. Maybe the lesson was something else. Maybe Palpatine had planned a different disaster, and this was just some random unpleasantness that had happened by coincidence, and after Tarkin fell to his death or was eaten or burned alive, Palpatine would ask why Vader hadn't been able to tell the difference. Why he hadn't intervened.

Palpatine would think that was _so_ funny. He could hear Palpatine's laughter, echoing in his mind.

He could feel Palpatine's presence around him.

He had. To stay. Still.

And then -

He heard blaster fire, which was strange; who had brought a blaster? He heard the creature give an unearthly shriek.

He forced himself to look, to focus. To make sense of what he was seeing.

A whole swarm of those round maintenance droids had risen from their work space at the fortress's foundations. Their weapons were minimal, but there were about a dozen of them, and they surrounded the creature, firing dutifully from every side. It screamed at them as several bolts hit their marks, swatting one out of the air. The droids kept firing. And then, after an agonizing pause, the creature let go of Tarkin and began to slink away.

Half the droids chased it. The others clustered around Tarkin, boosting him up. With a small spray of cold fluid, one of them put out the smoldering bits of fabric around his lower leg. Putting out fires was one of the things these droids were best at. They weren't a good shape for the other parts of the rescue, round and rough, but they had extensible manipulators and decent strength for their size, and after a bit of fumbling, the group of them together managed to deposit him back on the runway in a heap.

Tarkin crawled a few feet, panting with terror, until he was away from the edge; then he moved to get up. His burned leg collapsed under him as soon as he tried to put weight there. The maintenance droids crowded in again, and this time he hoisted himself up correctly, leaning on two of them for support. With the droids coasting along patiently at his side, holding on to him with their manipulators, he could just about hobble forward.

He cast a burning look at Vader as he passed which Vader, even in his frozen, shocky mental state, had no trouble decoding.

Tarkin's bitter mood this morning had been nothing compared to this. Tarkin had no patience for people who couldn't be useful. Tarkin looked at Vader now the way he might have looked at some junior officer who'd made an incompetent mistake and gotten a whole squad killed. Pure, violent, towering contempt.

"What the hell was that about?" said Tarkin, who almost never swore.

Vader couldn't answer. Vader wasn't sure he trusted himself to speak, not with Palpatine so thick in the air around him. He wasn't allowed to help Tarkin; if he tried to explain, to make excuses, did that count as helping?

The maintenance droids didn't slow down, and Vader watched silently until Tarkin had vanished into the fortress.

He knew now what his real mistake had been. He'd been so terrified of the moment when Tarkin would be harmed. He'd obsessed over it, imagined the clock counting down. Ruined whole mornings and evenings with his worry, and with his fear-born anger at Tarkin, who thought there was nothing to fear. Who couldn't see that moment coming.

But he hadn't given a single thought to how they would deal with each other afterwards.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin needs immediate medical care. Vader is in psychological shock. Vader's medical droid is having a very busy evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: last chapter was a cliffhanger and this one is, too. maybe even a meaner one in some ways. pace yourself accordingly. especially if you are already mad at Vader for falling for Palpatine's bullshit because he is definitely, 1000% still falling for it here.
> 
> chapter 11 is drafted - I was originally going to release 10 or 11 together - but it needs a few more days of revisions before i can let it loose on the world. actual resolution chapters are hard!
> 
> also: i am not a nurse and know nothing about medical care. i literally googled burn treatments for like 15 minutes and then made shit up, i have no attention span, don't @ me.
> 
> (that's an expression. do leave comments if you want, comments are great and you are great <3 )

Vader stood motionless as Palpatine's presence finally lifted, like smoke blown away by a fresh wind. He could move now, if he wanted to, but he didn't know what he was going to do. He did not feel like a lava river. His mind stuttered, stopping and starting.

He could feel Tarkin, alive and angry and frightened, being led through the fortress and attended to. He could not feel the lava creature; that had been chased far away. He could hear his breath and the soft roar of the river far below; he could see endless lava plains in every direction, bathing him in their evening glow. Something nearby, possibly a malfunction in the parked airspeeder, kept making a _plink_ sound.

_You cannot save anyone._

Once upon a time, he had been good at saving people. He'd been known for it, his willingness to leap into a fray on someone's behalf, to go behind enemy lines, to defy orders. He'd become Vader because he was trying to save someone. But that old self had died many years ago. Ashes and flame. Only the Dark Side remained.

He wanted to draw the Dark Side up through him and break this whole fortress to pieces, servants and Tarkin and all, bring it down in ruins around him. He was having difficulty finding the werewithal to move.

That _plink_ sound again. He should probably look at the speeder and see what was causing that. Then again, there was something soothing about the way it recurred.

After a while - he'd lost track of time - he saw M4-R3K hurrying out to him. That was odd. Why was she here, and not with Tarkin? He would have to scold her.

"Lord Vader!" she called out as she tottered up the runway. Medical droids were not built for quick movement. Strong, as he'd built her to be, but not fast. "Why are you out here? I had to look all over. Well, this has certainly been a strange day, but - Oh, no." She had come close enough for reasonable conversation now, and she suddenly looked down, distracted by the flashing panel at Vader's abdomen. "Oh, no, Lord Vader. I should have checked on you sooner."

"What?" said Vader, annoyed.

Her voice had deviated from its usual brisk cheer and taken on the careful tones of someone speaking to a large, potentially-rabid animal. "It's okay, Lord Vader. Everything's going to be fine, I promise. Just come this way and follow me back into the hangar, okay? Then we can talk a little more. Your neurotransmitters are doing something very, very unhappy right now and it's probably for a good reason, but all of this is fixable. Just come on. Okay? This way. Slowly."

Vader tried to remember if Force choking had any effect on droids. M4 didn't breathe, so technically no. But if he squeezed her neck hard enough, it would eventually cause other physical malfunctions. That might be satisfying.

"There is a man in that fortress who urgently requires medical aid," Vader said. "My _neurotransmitters_ are not your concern."

"They are literally my concern, Lord Vader. I am literally your personal medical droid. And I'm afraid that panel says you are having a dissociative panic attack large enough to present more danger than usual to things around you, like that airspeeder there, so we're going to have to deal with that now, okay? Your friend's going to be fine. I'm not mad, I'm not judging anything except your literal medical symptoms, but you've just got to come this way and sit with me in the hangar for a bit so I can help you out, okay, Lord Vader? Come on."

Vader looked over at the airspeeder, since she'd mentioned it.

_Plink._

The speeder was a crumpled wreck on the runway beside him. As he watched, its chassis slowly twisted and came further apart. The _plink_ was the sound of a bolt abruptly slipping its casing. He'd been mentally taking the whole thing to pieces all this time.

He regretted it. He'd liked that airspeeder. But it was satisfying having something to break.

He wondered if he could break M4 like that. Surely he could. Pick her up and take her apart piece by piece, throw the pieces off the runway, all the way down into the lava. Then everyone would leave him alone.

But -

He was vaguely aware he was not thinking straight. He did not like the way he was feeling. He felt both ill and dead, past the point where illness should be able to touch him. But he vaguely remembered he had felt like this before and it had passed. M4 had ways to make him stop feeling this way. He should probably not kill her, then.

He took a step forward.

"That's it, Lord Vader. Easy does it. Come on. Everything's going to be fine, like I said."

She visibly relaxed as soon as he got into relative shelter of the hangar. Probably because they were no longer standing next to a precipitous hundreds-of-feet drop into a lava lake. He wondered if she'd thought he might jump.

"Okay," said M4. "I am really, _really_ not sure what just happened this afternoon, but what happened is none of my business, so that's all right! My business is your ongoing wellbeing and also your friend's. Fortunately, both of you are treatable and I have a plan. Do you want to hear about you first, or your friend? Or, third option, I can be completely quiet and get you a sedative and explain everything later when you're feeling better. Totally up to you, Lord Vader. Pick any one."

"Tarkin," he said, and then paused. He wasn't sure how to fit the rest of the words into that sentence.

"Yes, okay, about him. I already did triage and some quick first aid before I came to check on you. He's got a circumferential third-degree burn on his lower leg, so that's going to need some careful looking after for a few weeks, but the prognosis is pretty good. As long as he follows doctor's orders, he'll be back to normal within a month. Also, I've decided I don't like him. He's been _so_ cranky this entire time, I don't know _what_ you see in him, honestly. But he'll be fine."

_A full recovery._  This was what Palpatine had promised. Vader wondered why it didn't reassure him at all.

He thought about that for a minute or so, or maybe shorter; M4 would have interrupted, surely, if it was a whole minute. His mind was still turning on and off at random. He thought about that, too. He would have to start thinking straight again, if he was going to deal with all this without killing anybody.

"Get me my sedative," he ordered.

"Okay. Good choice, Lord Vader. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get you to sit on one of those nice comfortable chairs in the entrance hall, and I'm going to have Vaneé sit with you so you're not left alone, and then you'll just do some meditation for a bit while I run and grab the medicine. Okay?"

"As you wish."

"Great. This way, okay?" She gave an electronic sigh as she led him forward through the fortress. He concentrated on trying not to break anything else. "You know, I keep suggesting to the Emperor that we should add proper psychiatric care to your long-term treatment plan, but he keeps turning me down. I don't know why. But at least we have meditation and emergency sedatives. Thank the Maker for small mercies, right?"

" _I_ am your Maker," Vader grumbled, but he followed.

*

Tarkin was in an exceptionally foul mood. His leg hurt a great deal. He deeply disliked Vader's medical droid. He disliked medical care in general. Over and above all this, he was angry with Vader. He didn't understand what had happened, which made him angrier. Vader's inaction wasn't only a betrayal, it was a betrayal that made no _sense._

Tarkin had a Theory Of Dealing With Vader, and this fit into it nowhere.

Fortress Vader didn't seem to have a proper infirmary. M4-R3K had set everything up right in Tarkin's guest room. She'd had the servants cover his bed with a fluid-resistant white sheet and had propped him up against a whole pile of spare pillows, and she'd assembled a daunting array of medical tools on a wheeled-in trolley. She'd propped his burned leg up on a side table, cut away the fabric from the affected area, and wrapped it in an uncomfortably cold, bacta-soaked bandage, talking endlessly all the while.

She'd injected a painkiller at some point, which had relaxed him slightly, and brought the agony in his leg down to an annoying dull roar. He still wasn't happy.

While his leg cooled off, M4 had then stripped him the rest of the way and made a full examination. She'd cleaned and bandaged his hands where the skin had scraped away, and had prodded at his leg and foot, asking him what hurt and how much he could move. There were no broken bones, it turned out, but many other minor things. Scrapes and bruises where he'd thrashed on the ground, small first- and second-degree burns here and there. She'd done a few more washings and bandagings, draped an extra bedsheet over him for modesty, and then bustled out of the room again.

"Your leg's going to need a lot more work," she explained, "but first I want to let it soak under the bandage a few more minutes. So I'm just going to nip out and update Lord Vader on how you're doing, and then I'll be right back, okay? Try not to move."

He hadn't given an answer, and she'd left so efficiently that it didn't appear she'd expected one.

M4-R3K's bedside manner wasn't _bad,_ exactly. Tarkin had encountered human medics with worse ones. But she was loud and feckless, and somehow vaguely condescending, as if Tarkin was ten years old and could be fooled into compliance by a sufficient number of pats on the head.

Mainly, he just didn't like needing medical care. Good officers were strong and efficient, free from imperfection. Languishing in a sickbay, in the stink of blood and bacta, was rather the opposite.

The droid was taking too long to return. Tarkin's datapad was not within reach - M4 had thoughtlessly set it down on the dresser when she stripped him, next to the benighted puzzle pouch - so he had nothing to do but brood.

He needed to understand what was happening.

He could see a few possibilities. One: Vader had deliberately decided not to save him from the lava monster. Tarkin had offended him somehow, and he'd decided Tarkin's life was not worth saving.

Except that didn't make sense, because Vader hadn't looked offended at all. He'd been happy, amused, inviting. Right up until that single faltering step, the second before the monster appeared. Nothing perceptible to Tarkin had caused that. Tarkin had done nothing to provoke it.

When Vader decided someone deserved to die, he wasn't quiet about it. He liked them to know exactly what was happening. Tarkin had seen it countless times: how he gave the people who irritated him a second or two to think, to raise their hands to their throats and realize why they couldn't breathe. Before he made some obnoxious, cutting quip about how they'd failed him.

There had been none of that here. Just a still, dead silence.

Besides - Tarkin had no illusions about this - if Vader  _actually_ wanted him dead, he would not be alive.

Perhaps he'd meant this only as a warning, but warnings were useless if they weren't understood. And giving people warnings by letting a lava monster injure them was not Vader's style. Too convoluted, too messy, too dependent on the monster's whims and not his own.

Option two: Vader was suffering from something strange, temporary, and psychological. If Tarkin hadn't known him at all, then that would have been his first guess. Tarkin had seen poorly trained or shellshocked soldiers freeze in combat before. But if Vader was prone to that particular difficulty, it would have come up a long time ago. Even if something suddenly, wildly distressed him, Vader was the type who would deal with that by getting _more_ active. Lashing out. Perhaps there was something extremely specific about lava monsters that triggered a freeze response when nothing else did, but Tarkin didn't think so.

Option three: the Force. Somehow.

There was circumstantial evidence for option three. Vader had blamed a disturbance in the Force for his bad mood when Tarkin arrived. He'd stopped in his tracks a moment before the monster emerged, as if sensing something Tarkin couldn't see.  But what sort of disturbance in the Force would cause  _this?_

Maybe it would make more sense if Tarkin actually understood the Force.

Perhaps some disturbance had temporarily removed Vader's Force abilities.  Tarkin didn't know what would cause that, or if the Force worked like that at all. Vader had been doing extremely complicated self-indulgent things with the Force only moments before. But perhaps there was a very localized Force-negating field around that type of monster. (Did it work that way?  Could the Force be negated? Tarkin didn't know.)

The Force was behind not only Vader's obvious magic but his unbelievably quick reflexes, his coordination, his strength. Deprived of those abilities suddenly, perhaps he _had_ frozen up. Perhaps he couldn't coherently formulate tactics without it.

Tarkin was deeply unimpressed, if so. He still had a lightsaber. Advanced lightsaber moves might require the Force, but it didn't take superhuman strength and speed to press a button on a laser sword, walk a few steps forward, and poke something with it.

Or would a Force-negating field make the lightsaber inoperable? No, that was still no excuse. There were so many other obvious things Vader could have done. Stomped on the creature with his heat-resistant cyborg boots. Thrown something at it. Extended a hand and helped Tarkin pull himself to safety. Called for help, even. If Force-negating creatures lived on Mustafar, then at some point in the many years he'd lived here, Vader should have come up with a contingency plan.

Perhaps it wasn't a simple negation. Perhaps there were types of disturbance in the Force that could literally paralyze the Force-sensitive. That made as much sense as anything else.

Or: perhaps Vader had behaved inexcusably, and Tarkin was making excuses for him, and Tarkin should stop.

The droid chose this moment to trundle back in with a new tray of medical instruments.

"Sorry about that, Governor Tarkin. It took me a while to find Lord Vader, and then he needed a bit of help. All taken care of now, though. How's the leg?"

Tarkin frowned slightly. _He needed a bit of help_ could mean a lot of things, but perhaps the droid could help him narrow down his theories. "I noticed Vader didn't seem to be acting like himself," he said in as neutral a tone as he could manage. "Is he all right?"

The droid shook a finger at him. "Now, now. I've got doctor-patient confidentiality to think of. Also, I'm honestly not sure. But that's none of our business! Let's take a look at your bandages."

Tarkin's frown deepened. Doctor-patient confidentiality was a weak excuse, since the droid had literally just left to go give Vader a medical update about Tarkin. "My safety while I stay in this fortress relies on Vader's good will. If he's suddenly developed some psychological syndrome that would affect that, I'd expect to be notified."

"Oh, nothing like that, don't you worry. No new syndromes. He's just rattled. I think." She began to carefully unwrap the bacta-soaked bandage.

Vaneé had responded to Tarkin's prying this morning with polite blandness, which had kept him safe. M4-R3K seemed incapable of that.  But at the moment, he had a lot of questions and a lot of resentment and no particular attachment to M4-R3K as a person. So that was good.

"You think," he repeated flatly.

"Droids do that, despite what you've been told. Shocking, I know." The bandage hurt coming off, despite Tarkin's painkillers; he grit his teeth. M4 dropped the bandage into a brightly colored medical waste bucket, then turned back to his leg, prodding here and there.  "Hmm, well, this seems to have cooled down. I'm going to have to debride it a bit, though. Right now you've got burned fabric and dead tissue all sort of fused together and stuck in there. Not to worry, it will only take a few minutes and then you'll start healing up nicely." She started to rummage in her pile of medical instruments.

"Perhaps we can figure this out together," said Tarkin. The droid was a friendly, chatty type; perhaps she'd respond to reciprocal friendliness. "We both have an obvious interest in Vader's wellbeing. I was there during the event, and you were there in its aftermath. If we can put both halves of that story together properly, it may begin to make a bit more sense."

"Or I could wait until his sedative kicks in and he can explain it to me himself. I think that'd be better. For me, at least." She picked up an injector and primed it. "Okay, Governor Tarkin, I'm just going to administer a local anesthetic. There'll be a bit of a poke for a second. Is 'Governor Tarkin' the correct title, by the way? I tried looking it up, but you seem to have about six different ones."

"'Governor Tarkin' will do if you'd like," said Tarkin. The droid chose that moment to stick him with the injector just under his knee. A second later, he didn't seem to have a leg below the knee at all. This was an immense relief. He wondered why she hadn't done it before.

So. Vader had required a sedative. That supported option two, but it wasn't a direct confirmation. "Has he required that a lot lately? I wouldn't want it to become an issue unexpectedly on some mission."

"You're prying. Don't think I can't tell you're doing it, because I can. Lord Vader's a private person. Does this hurt, by the way?" She pinched one of his toes with something sharp that looked like it should hurt. He still didn't feel his toes.

"Not at all," he said.

"Oh, good, so the anesthetic's working. You know, I'm usually so busy being a medical droid, I don't have time to follow politics. What even is a moff? Is that different from a governor?" She slid a new sterile cloth in under Tarkin's propped-up leg and proceeded to immobilize the limb with a complicated set of straps. She wasn't strapping it _down,_ exactly; instead her setup held his calf securely a few inches above the side table so she could get at the circumferential burn from all sides. It vaguely, inappropriately reminded him of Vader's way of holding people in the air.

"A regional governor appointed by the Empire," he said, "as opposed to the elected governors of the Republic. Also coincidentally someone who often has to work with Vader on counterinsurgency and other regional military concerns. I _do_ expect to be informed if one of his countless medical problems presents a safety issue."

"Well, then, I suppose you'd better ask him about that." M4 picked up a small handful of rather wicked-looking tools. "So what's a Grand Moff, then? Just a really extra special moff?"

"Something like that. My concern is-"

"Okay," said M4, interrupting him. "And I think you'd best be quiet now, Governor Tarkin, because I'm about to do something very complicated and unpleasant with these really sharp tools here so your leg can heal, and I would _really_ not want to be too distracted or startled or annoyed with you while I did that, okay?"

Tarkin gave her an unimpressed look.

She turned to focus entirely on his leg, and started doing something involving lasers, blades, tweezers, clamps, and the medical waste collection bucket, all of which was so alarmingly revolting to look at that Tarkin decided he was going to shut up after all. He looked to the side and focused carefully on the door to the fresher. He could start asking questions again when this part was over.

He thought about Vader. Vader had severe burns over virtually all of his body; he'd had to go through much worse than this. He'd presumably picked out this droid because she _didn't_ profoundly irritate him. That said something about Vader, although Tarkin wasn't quite sure what.

He did not understand anything Vader had done this entire visit. So m aybe he should think of it from another angle. Vader had done what he'd done, explicable or otherwise. The question that concerned him should be: what was Vader going to do  _next?_

Perhaps he'd come in and explain. That would be nice. Probably too much to hope for.

Perhaps he'd come in and _apologize._ That would be even better.

Perhaps he'd come in and bluster in his Vaderish way. Try to insist it was Tarkin's fault, or something Tarkin should have been able to deal with himself. A repeat of his lines from their first night: that Tarkin should not have come here, should have known it wasn't safe. Tarkin was not in the mood to be patient with that. If Vader came in and tried to bluster, Tarkin would have words for him. Shouted words, probably. Then they'd see how the dust settled after they fought.

Or, if Option One from earlier was correct - if Vader had let Tarkin be harmed because he was angry - then there was a worse possibility. H e might enter the room still angry. Since Tarkin was alive and receiving medical care, he could assume Vader didn't want to kill him, but if Vader had some drawn-out plan for punishment that didn't quite kill him, Tarkin would have to deal with that.  He'd seen Vader torture people before, but there was no use dwelling on how bad it could be. Either the Theory Of Dealing With Vader would help, or absolutely nothing would.

Or: perhaps Vader wouldn't appear at all.  He'd already been sedated. Perhaps he'd sulk off to his quarters like he had last night, and refuse to emerge until after noon tomorrow, when it was time for Tarkin to leave.

In which case, Tarkin would leave. At the very least, in that eventuality, he would never have to see this awful fortress again.

*

M4 sat Vader down on a couch in the entrance hall. Vaneé arrived promptly a moment later; she'd summoned him by comm link on the way there.  He did an even more careful, even more elaborate bow than normal, practically folding all the way to the floor.

"Hi, Vaneé," said M4. "Nice to see you. Lord Vader just needs somebody to sit with him for a quick second while I run and get his sedative, okay?"

"Is that what you wish, my lord?" Vaneé asked.

Vaneé was no fool.  He knew that whatever M4 thought about Vader's needs at the moment was probably correct. He also knew that Vader, in any state where he needed a sedative and a person to sit with him, was even more dangerous than normal, and he wasn't about to follow any instruction that might go against Vader's wishes or suggest that Vader wasn't in charge.

"Do as the droid says," said Vader.

Vaneé sank down onto one of the other chairs, as far as possible from Vader. M4 was already scurrying away.

"The droid will be back soon, my lord," said Vaneé in his usual soft voice. "In the meantime,  I won't do anything to disturb you unless you ask, but should you require something, I am available as ever."

Vader ignored him. Vaneé assumed a servant's careful, self-preserving stillness and ignored Vader back. Vader's mind was still stopping and starting. He couldn't quite work out how to go into meditation from here. He focused all his attention on listening to his breath, staying still. Odd, really, how stillness seemed to be what everyone wanted from him.

It was only a minute more before  M4 came trotting back out of the lift.

"This should start to take effect quickly, Lord Vader," she said,  deftly feeding the medicine packet into the appropriate port. "You'll start to feel better in just a couple of minutes. But remember that it doesn't reach its full strength for another half hour or so after that, okay? And your focus can start to come back before your equilibrium does. You'll still want to be really careful with yourself for a while. Got it?"

"As you wish," Vader said vaguely. He wasn't experiencing time correctly anyway. The difference between a couple of minutes and half an hour didn't seem worth thinking about.

"I'm sorry, Lord Vader. I  really  _would_ stay with you, but it's just that your friend needs his leg taken care of and I know you feel strongly about making sure that gets done properly, and I'm the only medical professional here, so I'm going to have to run off and do it.  I'll be back to check on you soon, I promise." She turned to Vaneé. "Don't let him go wandering off by himself, now, okay?"

Vaneé raised his eyebrows faintly at the idea that he could possibly stop Vader from going anywhere if Vader wanted to.

Vader sat quietly as M4 left and concentrated on not breaking anything or choking anyone. He waited, for what felt like many long minutes, until he thought he could feel the medicine kicking in.

When it came, it was a subtle warmth. A very slight unclenching.  His mind was beginning to clear. He could look around the room and consider its contents without anything stuttering to a halt or going  _plink._  He could think in a more organized manner about what he sensed and remembered. He concentrated on making his thoughts more organized, until he could smoothly go through the whole sequence of events in his head: the exhilarating speeder ride, Palpatine's sudden presence, the monster. The look Tarkin had given him at the end.

He'd known, hadn't he, that all he could do with Tarkin was hurt him.

But the lesson was over. He was done. Talking to Tarkin now wouldn't be against the rules. Vader couldn't warn him or lessen the harm, because the harm was _done._

This harm, at least.

With a soft beeping sound,  a couple of maintenance droids flew into the room. Between them they held the scorched remains of a third. A droid who had fallen battling the monster. Vader was mildly impressed that they'd been able to recover a body at all. It must have fallen onto the runway by happenstance.

The droids set their companion down at Vader's feet and beeped again, politely expectant.

It was not a beep of accusation. These droids were Vader's, and they did their duties without complaint. Their request was purely practical: one of their number was broken, and Vader knew how to fix droids.

He waved them away. When he had time to return to his workshop, he'd look at this. It probably wasn't salvageable as anything other than parts, but he'd do what he could.

The droids obligingly flew away.

It was just another distressing thing about Vader. He was so good at hurting people that it kept happening even when he _didn't_ try. He'd hurt Tarkin by inviting him here. He'd hurt the droids as collateral. He'd hurt his second favorite airspeeder, although he was lucid enough to tell the difference between that and a person. Nothing about it was salvageable. Palpatine would never go away, no matter what Vader did. This lesson was over, but there would always be  some new, awful game.

If Tarkin stayed, he'd only be hurt again, some other time.

But Vader could make Tarkin go away.

He carefully stood. Sometimes the sedative made him woozy, but he didn't feel that now. He hurt, but he felt strong. He was the lava river again, the form it took in the generator room. Flowing on through the channels allowed to it, doing what had to be done.

Vaneé stirred, looking up at him cautiously. "My lord, I believe Em-four said it would be better if you stayed here a while."

"I have recovered. I no longer require your presence. Take this droid to an empty table in my workshop, then return to your quarters."

Vaneé did an elaborate, sitting variant on a bow. "Of course, my lord. Only I believe Em-four mentioned that this sedative takes half an hour to take full effect, and it hasn't been quite that long. I wonder if-"

Vader turned fully, slowly. Took a looming step in his direction. "Are you disobeying a direct order, Vaneé?"

Vaneé hadn't survived in Vader's employ for fifteen years by sticking his neck out.

"No, my lord. My apologies."

He picked up the broken droid and scuttled off, leaving Vader to go exactly where he wished.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader confronts Tarkin mid-medical-treatment and finally tells him the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some minor changes to the fic summary and tags, mostly because it's been bugging me that this got SO ANGSTY when the original summary only sounded like a bunch of goofy sex. (I have trouble calibrating my emotions sometimes, it wasn't an intentional misdirection.)
> 
> On that note, here's a tiny content warning for people who paid attention to the original version of the tags: I changed my mind. There's a Force choke in this one.

Vader knew a little bit about burn care, and he knew it would not be useful to interrupt M4 in the middle of it. So he waited for a while outside Tarkin's door. This gave him a little time to breathe and prepare. He did not doubt his plan. He was a Sith lord and a lava river. Just because he hurt did not mean he doubted.

Finally the door opened and M4 bustled out, clutching a covered medical waste bucket for disposal. She startled visibly. "Lord Vader! I thought I told you to wait downstairs."

"There has been a change of plan. Is Governor Tarkin in an appropriate state to speak with me?"

M4 drew herself up. "Lord Vader, I know you're worried about your friend, but I would really _strongly_ recommend that you wait a little while. Your sedative has not had time to fully take effect. I have no idea what happened out there or what your specific concerns are right now, and we can definitely talk about that after I take this to the autoclave, but-"

That meant that Tarkin was not, in fact, unconscious or in the middle of surgery. It also meant  Vader's vitals were no longer doing the thing that had terrified M4. Otherwise, she'd have led with that. Vader picked her up and Force-tossed her into the lift, which chimed, shut its door, and began to descend to the lower floors.

"I'm carrying medical waste!" she shouted from inside. "Show some respect!"

Vader strode into Tarkin's guest room and let the door shut behind him.

Tarkin was propped up against a stack of pillows, with a water-resistant white sheet underneath him and a more ordinary black bedsheet draped over his body like a stole. His injured leg protruded from under the sheet and had been fastened to a side table, with the injured part suspended in the air. It was very heavily, freshly bandaged. Other bandages decorated the visible parts of his body at random, particularly the hands.

His eyes looked a little wider than normal, but he felt lucid. He watched Vader with an air of careful expectation. As one would watch an unfamiliar ship in one's sights, prepared to discover if it was friend or foe.

"We can speak freely now," said Vader. "This visit is over. You are no longer my toy. You will stay here long enough to be medically cleared for flight, and then you will leave. Forever."

He _felt_ Tarkin's response before he heard it. It was fascinating how quickly Tarkin's mind worked: how it resolved in a moment from wary uncertainty to a thoroughly realized conclusion about how this would go. Vader couldn't feel what the conclusion was, but he could feel its shape.

It was a very angry shape.

"Really, Vader? And will you bother explaining _why_ that is necessary?"

"I need not explain anything."

"Oh, I think you do," said Tarkin. His voice held such menace it was practically a growl.

_We can speak freely,_ Vader had said. He should not have put it that way. If they both argued, Tarkin was likely to win.

"These are matters beyond your understanding," said Vader.

"Really," said Tarkin again. "Then let me tell you something that is apparently beyond _your_ understanding, since you're so very busy dealing with ineffable mysteries that nearly get the people around you killed. Whatever happens here, you and I will both continue to be called on  to defend the Empire together. You've been rude to me all weekend for reasons you refuse to explain and apparently letting me be eaten alive by a lava monster doesn't require explanation, either. Fine. Perhaps I've offended you so severely that you can't bear to discuss it. But when next we cross paths, I will need to rely on you not to suddenly abandon me or my men in harm's way. That means I will continue to need to know how to act so as not to provoke you. So unless you're going to murder me right here and now for having failed you, I _demand_ to be told what the _hell_ it is that I _did._ I ask this for the sake of the continued functioning of the Empire. Not mine."

Vader should leave. Tarkin couldn't win an argument if Vader wasn't there to have it. Better yet, he could choke Tarkin to death for having shouted at him. Tarkin couldn't win an argument if he was dead. Palpatine couldn't hurt Tarkin if he was dead, either. The damage would already be done.

But he knew better than that, deep down. And he could not quite bear to leave.

It wasn't Tarkin's rage that had swayed him. Nor the actual direction of Tarkin's argument, although he had a point. It was the way he'd said: _I've offended you._

The way even Tarkin, so forceful and self-possessed, had ended up blaming himself.

"You did nothing to offend me," said Vader. "Your actions have been entirely correct. This was not my choice. It was the Emperor's."

He felt the way Tarkin's mind shifted again, startled. How it immediately began to recalibrate. Vader had always liked the feel of Tarkin's mind, so quick and intricate. It made him want to burrow his way inside, even now.

"Which part, Vader?" he said, in a very careful voice, as if stepping around glass. "The lava monster? Or telling me to leave? Or-?"

"The monster." Tarkin would press for the entire story now, so he may as well tell it. "The Emperor spoke to me after you and I made our plans. He said that he would ensure you met with an accident here. And that I was not to warn you, nor help you, however you might ask."

" _That_ was why you were-" Tarkin pressed his bandaged hands to his face a moment, pinched the bridge of his nose between both. When he lowered them again, his face was very still, all caution. "Have I displeased the Emperor?"

"No. This was a lesson for me, not a punishment for you. He said to me that you are one of his best officials; you would be difficult to replace. That was why he let you live."

*

Tarkin didn't know what he'd expected, really, but this was not it. Tarkin knew Palpatine as well as anyone could: his maze of overlapping plots and personas, none of them remotely trustworthy. Palpatine had a tendency for these sadistic little games. But Tarkin had never been caught up in them in quite this way before. He let himself boggle a little as Vader settled onto the other side of the bed.

It should have occurred to him earlier. Palpatine and Vader were uniquely close. They shared a religion and a connection to the Force, and Vader obeyed him fervently. If something odd was happening to Vader, then _Palpatine did it_ was an obvious possibility.

But that was one of the things about Palpatine. He was the most suspicious person in the Empire, but if one didn't already know he was involved in some specific matter, it was almost impossible to remember to suspect him. It was one of Palpatine's Force abilities, perhaps the most useful of all.

It was a relief, in a way. It made more sense than anything else Tarkin had been able to imagine, even if the reason for it was not yet clear. Even if it raised yet more alarming possibilities in its wake.

"It was a lesson for you." He spoke out in the direction he was facing, vaguely towards the dresser, rather than trying to twist around to look at Vader. It was easier. He could pretend they were on some command ship's bridge, rationally dissecting some rational problem, rather than this absurd disaster. "Why would he - No, this is the Emperor we're talking about; let me rephrase. What did he _tell_ you the lesson was for?"

"He foresaw something. His concerns were not about you, nor my association with you. Merely that, in the future, I might become attached to something else which posed a threat. He wished me to practice putting my attachments aside to obey him, so he created a conflict between your wishes and his. That is all."

That was never all. Palpatine never had just one reason for something. But Tarkin couldn't expect Vader to give him the other reasons if Vader himself didn't know them.

"You had other personal visitors here before," he mused aloud, "and the Emperor didn't target them. Did he?"

"No. He had not foreseen anything then. I am permitted visitors, so long as they do not threaten the existing order."

"And I don't?"

"You do not."

"So this was simply a matter of timing. I'm who you were most attached to, aside from him, at the time when he happened to want to test you."

A brief hesitance. "As you say."

Tarkin's heart was a traitor, the way it leapt at the confirmation. Vader was more attached to him than anyone else. He _hadn't_ been making that up. He'd been right the first time, despite all Vader's bluster.

He would have expected Vader to be slower to say it, even now. But Vader was emotionally exhausted and apparently sedated, and all the cards were finally out on the table. Perhaps it had felt natural, this once.

He should not get distracted. He was still angry. Everyone involved had handled this poorly, and there was much more that he needed to understand.

Tarkin had known that Vader worked exclusively for Palpatine. That Palpatine was a spiritual mentor to Vader, and that he valued Vader's loyalty. He'd seen Vader address Palpatine as _my master._ But he hadn't imagined a demand for loyalty quite  _this_ intense.

"Are you and he... together?" he managed. "Is that what this is?"

What a revolting thought that was. A version of Palpatine consumed not only with hunger for power but with the outsized, overly-complicated, Palpatine version of sexual jealousy. Lying in wait to destroy the lives of anyone who looked at his boyfriend wrong.

"Not in the sense you mean," said Vader. "But he is my master. In any matter related to the Force, I must do as he commands. And the Force is related to everything."

Tarkin sagged backwards against his pillows. It was as he'd imagined, then. Except he hadn't thought about what that would _mean_ for him, or for anyone else reckless enough to pursue a romantic interest in Vader.

"Well," he managed, looking at the ostentatious black ceiling. "Is the lesson over? To your knowledge, at least."

"Yes." Vader said it unhappily, but without hesitation, which was good. If there was yet another awful thing that he wasn't allowed to tell Tarkin about, he'd have hesitated. Or gotten angry again. "I have done all that he requested of me."

"And is it likely to recur? To your knowledge."

"No."

Tarkin tried to draw himself back upright and found that, with an immobilized leg and bandaged hands, this was difficult. Feeling was creeping back into his leg, and the flesh that had been scraped raw by M4-R3K's attentions was not happy at _all._ Best not to jostle it, he decided, and resigned himself to leaning awkwardly on the pillows for now. "Well, then, where does that leave us?"

Vader wasn't angry with him. Vader hadn't wanted to abandon him to the lava monster. Vader cared for him, which was why any of this mess had happened at all. But if they wanted to mend things, it would mean having Palpatine's shadow over them always. Tarkin had ways of coping with that at work, but having to deal with it in a relationship would be very different. Much more invasive. Palpatine might _say_ the lesson was over, but if he wanted to test Vader again in the future, it would mean another lava monster or worse.

Which, no doubt, was why Vader had ordered Tarkin to leave.

But the more Tarkin thought about this, the more certain he felt that leaving wouldn't solve it. Not if they both, deep down, wanted to stay. Palpatine used the Force, after all. Like Vader, he didn't see the world in terms of outward arrangements. He worked with what was underneath.

"I meant it," said Vader, "when I asked you to leave. I have wished you to leave since you arrived. I meant everything I said about your recklessness. When you arrived here, you did not truly understand the danger. Now you do."

And he understood now why Vader had been acting so oddly the whole time. Very few people would handle it well, knowing someone close to them was about to be harmed. Having to perform both sex and conversation with that person, pretending nothing was wrong. People accustomed to the ugly guts of galactic politics, the friendly facades and sly backstabbing, could do it. But Vader was a blunt instrument with no head for politics. Of course he hadn't handled it well.

"I do," said Tarkin, keeping his voice level. "Much more than I did before. But I'm not sure if _you_ fully appreciate the situation. It's not a question of danger versus safety. We've reached a point where every option carries risk."

"There would not be a risk if you agreed to leave."

Tarkin sighed. "Yes, Vader, there would be. Honestly, how _have_ you survived dealing with the Emperor? He feels the emotions around him just as you do. He has already examined this situation and determined he can use it to control you. That's not because I happen to be visiting your fortress. It's because I care for you. And you care for me. The Emperor can find ways to take advantage of that even if we're apart. So fleeing won't help. We need to deal with that reality."

Vader's voice had turned cold. "Do not pretend to be the voice of reason, Tarkin. Your feelings have betrayed you. You are so enthralled to know I have some small attachment to you that you will disregard every other risk."

"That is not what I'm saying," Tarkin insisted. " _You're_ not listening to _me-_ "

He felt the Force-vise close around his neck, cutting him off, mid-sentence.

It wasn't choking. Not quite. He could breathe, a little, with effort. But it was enough to make him uncomfortably aware of the skin of his throat and the fragile biology underneath, his pulse beating hard against the invisible grip. He instinctively brought a hand up, clawing at his neck, even though he'd seen this happen enough times to know it was useless.

He would have used his safeword if they'd been in a scene. But he had an awful suspicion that, in this situation, it would do no good at all.

"I am listening," Vader growled. "To your words _and_ your feelings. You want me to act on _my_ feelings. Do you really, Tarkin? All of them?"

"Let go of me, Vader," said Tarkin, as steadily as he could.

He felt the bed shift, again, as Vader got up off of it. Stalked out in front of him, so Tarkin could see him loom. There was nowhere to look at this range except into that inky black mask. Nothing let go.

"You cannot sense when to leave well enough alone," said Vader. "You always want _words._ I will give you words, then. I do feel for you. You vex me more intensely than anyone else who ever had the honor of being mine. You are cleverer than me and more patient and your senses feel like cold, clear flames. You have improved me. I cannot love, not truly anymore. But I want your loyalty. Your adoration. All that you can give me. And it does not matter if you give it to me or not. Because I know, I _feel_ , how this will end."

Last night, Tarkin had ached to hear something like this. Vader's heart laid bare to him at last. He still wanted it, but not like this. Not with Vader halfway to strangling him.

"Let go of me," he said again, "and let's talk about this like rational-"

His words cut off, with an awkward gagging sound, as Vader Force-pulled him upright by his neck. His injured leg protested as his upper body swung all the way forward into Vader's grasp. Vader's actual, physical hand wrapped itself around Tarkin's throat. The sheet that M4-R3K had wrapped around him sagged down into his lap, exposing his chest.

" _This_ is how it ends," Vader rumbled. " Either my master will do it or I will.  I have killed people I cared for before, do you understand?  I am the lava this planet is made from. Everything that touches me burns. And  I would rather push you far from me than watch you crumble to ash in my hands.  Do you understand? Is this enough _words?_   Or do you require further demonstration? "

"Put me down," Tarkin said again. All he could manage was a whisper.

Here was one more thing about the Theory Of Dealing With Vader: It was mostly illusion. Being firm, showing strength, setting clear boundaries: all these things reminded Vader of what Vader already wanted to do. They redirected him away from the fleeting aggressive impulses that weren't really in his own best interest. But if Vader truly, sincerely wanted to harm someone, not even Tarkin could stop him. Maybe not even the Emperor. He'd known that from the beginning.

He'd known it, and he'd wanted Vader anyway, with that traitorous part of his heart. The part that loved Death Stars and command ships and staring down Rebels in his own parlor. The part of him that knew it was a monster, and that only felt alive when it was freed, with the other monsters, to bare its teeth.

That part of him wasn't surprised by a single thing Vader had just said. And it marveled at Vader's deadly beauty, even now.

Vader held his gaze a moment longer, and then abruptly let go, throwing him back down onto the pillows. Tarkin's injured leg jarred in its restraints as he fell, and he let out a bark of pain.

"You do understand," said Vader. "I feel that, too. If you accept me, you are accepting your death."

They weren't talking about Palpatine anymore, Tarkin noted. They had gotten to the heart of the matter.

Vader had killed people he cared for before. Maybe even in this same, choking way. Tarkin had already half-believed that. He knew Vader didn't mean other visiting submissives; Vaneé had said all of them lived, though not without incident. Vader meant, very likely, whoever his wife had been.

Tarkin took a long breath, feeling the air go in and out unrestricted. For now.

"No," he said softly. "I don't accept that. What I do accept is that you can do better. If I'm not mistaken, you've done better than that for years already. And, as you say, I've improved you further. I've been intentionally teaching you better habits, and by and large it's stuck. This, just now, was a lapse, and I don't want it to happen again. But I'm alive, after all. And as long as that's true, there's a chance to pick up the pieces and further improve."

He listened to Vader's own, slow breaths. He watched as Vader slowly, carefully withdrew a little. He turned and sat by Tarkin on the bed.

"You will not leave, then," Vader said.

Tarkin could hear the implied, tentative truce. He would not leave, and Vader would not kill him.

He wished that he could sit up properly. But flailing helplessly, in an attempt to do so, wasn't going to help his case.

"Here's a question, first," he said, "that I should have asked much earlier. You say you are permitted visitors so long as they don't threaten the existing order. What does that actually mean? Are you allowed to have relationships?"

Vader hesitated. "I told you I am committed to my path. The Dark Side must take priority over all else. Should I become too distracted from that pursuit, the Emperor will become unhappy."

"Define for me what 'too distracted' means. You're clearly allowed at least some self-indulgence. Where is the line drawn?"

"It is drawn where the Emperor feels there is a threat to the existing order. Something I might value enough to bring me into conflict with the Dark Side, or with him."

Tarkin pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose again in frustration. Of course that was the rule. Of course it would be something vague like that, which the Emperor could define however he wanted to at the time.

But Vader had said that Tarkin was _not_ a threat. And he honestly didn't imagine himself becoming one, even in the most absurd and extravagant scenarios. Tarkin had put the Empire first all his life. That would work in his favor here.

"I'm going to need to discuss this with him myself," said Tarkin, "when we next meet. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings. And I need to let him know how unhappy I am about _this._ " He gestured vaguely to his leg. "But I do think that a relationship between us is workable. You and I want the same things. I value your unique skills and your contribution to the Empire, and I have no intention at all of disrupting that. Merely of fitting something we both enjoy into that framework. And if you're frightened of harming your partners, then honestly, I'm who you want. I'm the one who knows how to make you back down."

Vader looked at him cautiously. "And if the Emperor does not approve?"

"We'll deal with that then. He and I will."

"And if he does? What are your intentions then?"

Tarkin found himself smiling dangerously, despite everything. Despite this whole terrible day. "Come now, Vader. You've got a Jedi's senses. I think you know exactly what I want."

*

Vader wanted to blame the sedative for what he was doing. The violence, and the subtler problem, the way he had slipped from his plan almost immediately when pressed. But focus and clarity had been returning, bit by bit, all through this conversation. He couldn't truly blame panic, or medicine, or anything but himself.

Tarkin looked so good sprawled helplessly against the pillows, his wiry chest exposed, his gaze as sharp as ever. Tarkin knew how to make himself tempting. Even when Vader was sure he should not give in.

He felt like he had been warning Tarkin over and over for days. He had stumbled, as ever, into the way of his own prophecy. He had warned Tarkin and given him the clearest of chances to escape, forgetting what that would mean when Tarkin refused.

Tarkin's life had not been in danger before. Not from Palpatine. It might be now.

And yet.

Vader had _told_ him the risk. And Tarkin had decided to stay. Tarkin wanted, more than ever, to love him. Vader should have expected that, really, given Tarkin's general proclivity for the deadliest weapon in the room. Maybe Tarkin deserved to freely make that choice.

"I will hurt you," he warned, a final time. He didn't think he could endure much more warning.

"I should hope so."

"I will _harm_ you."

"I don't think you truly will. But I accept the risk." Tarkin smiled slightly. "I'm a risk to you, too, Vader. I'll make you feel more than you'd like to. I'll challenge you when you can't bear to be challenged."

"You have no illusions left about what I am. What my life is. What I can offer. And you want me in spite of it."

"Because of it, Vader."

 Vader could feel the truth of it. The desire shining out from Tarkin's body like a sun. "You are mine."

Tarkin reached up with a bandaged hand and laid a finger under the chin of Vader's mask, tugging his face in possessively. "And you're mine. Let's stop pretending it's just one or the other, shall we?"

That sounded good to Vader.

He Force-pushed the pile of pillows away and pressed Tarkin all the way down on his back. He didn't immobilize him this time. He'd seen how delicate M4's existing setup with the straps was. Tarkin winced slightly, and Vader let him adjust until he was lying at an angle that felt comfortable. Then Vader crouched possessively over him, impatiently Force-pressing from the top of Tarkin's head down, sinking his senses into this body that wanted all of him.

He watched as Tarkin half-closed his eyes and arched his neck, leaning into even this preliminary touch. Both of them were so drained of defenses. Even a light touch was almost too much, after all the rest of today, almost overwhelming.

Good. Vader liked Tarkin a little overwhelmed.

He took his time, adjusting to Tarkin's body in this altered state. He didn't focus in on Tarkin's injured leg; Vader knew what severe burns felt like and wasn't interested in feeling more. But the rest of the body he took easily, heedless of its bruises and scorches and scrapes. He leaned into those, lingered on them. Tarkin had taken this pain for Vader, unknowingly, and now it was Vader's to feel.

He watched Tarkin wince, his breath catch, as Vader explored in minute detail one of the bruises under his ribs. Vader savored that. There was something oddly vital about the surface pain of a distressed body still healthy enough to recover. Something that surged all the harder towards life.

"You are mine," he repeated.

There was no need to strike Tarkin today. He could just let his power flow over him, holding him, warming him. The pain they both enjoyed was already there, inherent to what they had chosen and done.

Tarkin smiled up at him through half-lidded eyes. "Look at that. You've got me properly on a bed for once."

Vader drew lower with the Force, dipped between Tarkin's legs to his rising cock. _That_ wasn't injured at all, but the aftereffects of panic had made it as tender as everything else. "I would not call this proper."

"True. There are-" And then whatever he'd been about to say disappeared, bitten off as he hissed in a breath between his teeth, as Vader tightened around him. "There are a number of- Oh, Force, that feels good."

Vader kept his grip exactly that tight and slow. "I cannot normally take your power of speech merely by stroking you. Perhaps you've lost your edge."

"Don't get used to it. I'm blaming whatever chemicals your droid put into my system. And stress. And- _Oh._ "

And the fact, Vader thought, that both of them had thought they might never have this again. The relief. The weird exhilaration of being in this together, after all.

He wanted Tarkin under him like this every damn day. If Tarkin was going to die, whether by Vader's hand or not, then Vader wanted him here until then.

"Of course not," he purred, luxuriating in it. "I do not wish to grow used to this being _easy._ "

"Give me a day or two and I'll go back to vexing you, I promise. I-" He cut off again, panting, as another part of Vader's touch crept further down and teased lightly inside him. "That's-"

Unexpectedly, he reached up and grabbed at Vader with his bandaged hands.

Vader was so startled that his rhythm faltered. He had decided not to immobilize Tarkin. He had forgotten that meant Tarkin now had _two_ hands free.

His left hand had wrapped around the back of Vader's helmet as Vader leaned over him. But he wasn't trying to remove it, as some very misguided submissives sometimes did. He just _held_ it, clutching Vader towards him. His other hand had landed somewhere around Vader's shoulder and scrabbled downwards, clutching for his cape.

It didn't feel like much to Vader. Physical contact rarely did. His suit muffled most of it, and his fucked-up nerve endings distorted the rest. But he could feel what it felt like to Tarkin, consuming and urgent and ordinary, the animal desire to pull a lover closer. Despite his hands, which were badly scraped and probably shouldn't be holding tightly to _anything_. Vader could feel the way Tarkin's injured palms protested, and the way Tarkin resolutely failed to care.

He'd do more with those hands, then, if Tarkin wanted them held. He focused on them more closely, crept in with the Force at their agonized folds and crevices. Tarkin groaned, satisfyingly, in response. But he didn't let go.

Vader had already regained his rhythm. He could feel how it turned up Tarkin's senses even higher, after a day like this, being able to hold on.

"I should have remembered," he observed, "that you are unpredictable when you have a hand free."

"This," Tarkin panted, "is _entirely_ predictable."

Vader reached down, then, mirroring him.

He felt, guiltily, the small spike of Tarkin's fear as Vader's gloved hand touched his face. And the answering throb of arousal, as Vader's Force-touch worked him closer and closer to his edge. Tarkin liked fear, even now, in spite of everything.

Vader didn't push it too far. He didn't touch Tarkin's neck; after his lapse tonight, he'd have to be careful around that for a while. Instead he stroked Tarkin's cheek a moment, as if stroking a pet animal. Then he lifted his hand and let it rest, gloved palm down, on Tarkin's chest.

"Mine," Vader said again.

"Yes," Tarkin whispered, his eyes drifting shut. "Mine-"

And then he arched and came, ragged and warm. Letting the evening's tension deeply, slowly dissolve. He relaxed down into the bed, gasping to catch his breath, eyes closed. Undone.

His hands loosened their grip and dropped back down to the bedspread. Vader disentangled himself, sitting upright. He pulled his senses back into his real body. But he stayed sitting on the bed a minute, looking down at his handiwork.

He'd chosen this. He  _had_ this. For now.

*

Vader, for once, was in no hurry. He almost thought Tarkin might fall asleep beside him. But Tarkin's painkillers were wearing off, and eventually he winced and stirred. He needed to be cleaned off and propped back up, and then Vader had to reluctantly let a very miffed M4-R3K back into the room.

The plan, after M4 finished scolding both of them for delaying her work, was that she would finish up with Tarkin and get the contact information for his doctors on Coruscant, sketching out a plan of what his next several days of recovery would look like. Then Tarkin would have a large, late dinner, while M4 checked Vader for any further acute psychological symptoms, before they spent the rest of the evening together.

It all took a long time, though, and when Vader finally did step back into the guest room,  Tarkin was fast asleep.

His leg had been untied and the medical trolleys taken away, and he'd tucked himself under the black blankets of the guest bed. An elegant cane lay propped up at the side; he'd presumably been shown how to walk with it, so he could get himself to the fresher or wherever else he felt an urgent need to be. A hearty plate of food lay half-eaten on a chair beside the bed, where he'd apparently run out of energy partway through eating.

Vader knew what it felt like to be exhausted by shock, pain, and medicine. He had no desire to disturb Tarkin's rest.

He turned to go, and his gaze fell on the dresser near the door. That puzzle pouch Tarkin had offered him, two nights ago, still lay there. Vader remembered how angry he'd been, when he'd first drawn the puzzle out and looked at it. It had seemed so impossible to ever accept what Tarkin had to give.

He picked the pouch up and left with it, the door swishing gently shut behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin prepares to leave the fortress. Vader has just one more thing to confess.

Tarkin woke up aching and hungry and too groggy to want to do much about either. He tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but that movement sparked such an alarming jolt of pain that he sat up, alert now. After a fashion.

M4-R3K had left a bottle of pain pills on the chair beside his bed, along with instructions for appropriate dosage, and he swallowed one gratefully with a swig of last night's half-empty water. He then found his cane propped up where he'd left it, and hauled himself upright to limp to the fresher. Today's morning routine was going to take longer than usual. For one thing, it would involve another visit from the droid to change his bandages. Someday someone should invent a bandage that didn't need changing. For that matter, Tarkin was still in charge of military R&D he could fund that project.

From the moment he saw this room and its dark, grand architecture, Tarkin had been aware of a question he couldn't quite verbalize. He was aware of its answer now. This fortress was designed to make visitors feel small. But in a slightly different way, it was also designed to keep Vader in line. A visceral reminder of where his power lay, what sort of power it was, and how impossible it would be to resist its cost.

Next time, Tarkin would try harder to lure him somewhere else.

On the slow and awkward way to the fresher, he noticed that something was missing.

He thought he remembered hearing Vader come in last night. It would make sense, since they'd planned to meet. He hadn't been awake enough to do anything about it, but he had a vague memory of lying there, cocooned in his sheets, and hearing Vader's breath.

Vader had been in here, and now the puzzle pouch, which he remembered having left on that corner of the dresser, was not.

He smiled a little, despite himself, the whole rest of the way across the room.

*

Vader woke up impatient. He wanted to see Tarkin again.

"Sometimes you are just a little bit ungrateful, Lord Vader," said M4 as she fiddled with the valves that governed primary fluid and nutrient intake. "I had an extremely busy day yesterday. I've been working very hard to make sure you and your friend are both all right. Even after you threw me into a lift with a bucket of medical waste. And I don't even _like_ your friend. He is as rude as you are. I know Sith Lords don't say 'thank you,' but I wish you would."

"If I tell you your efforts are appreciated," said Vader, "will you work faster?"

"Hmph," said M4. "You know, the reason this takes so long is not because I'm being lazy. It's because, the faster I try to go, the more chance there is that something will slip and hurt you. Injure you, even. I'm looking out for your best interests, that's why this takes so long. But I suppose I could be quicker and sloppier if you really insisted. If you ask again, maybe I will."

"I cannot imagine," said Vader, "why you and Tarkin do not get along."

M4 shifted her attention to an auxiliary intravenous line. Unclipped the one from the tank and set about replacing it with its suit counterpart. "Did you know he tried to interrogate me about you? While _I_ had _him_ tied down."

Of course he had. Vader was extremely amused by that mental image. "Did it work?"

"Of course not." The line clicked into place, and she reached over to pick up something else. "Much. Okay, and new topic, we're done with phase one and on to your prosthetics, which means everything is ticking along ahead of schedule, just like you asked. You see, Lord Vader, I do follow instructions."

*

In theory, Palpatine was difficult to get a hold of by comm link, even through the most private, secure, closely-guarded channels. People didn't call Palpatine; he called them. Or they could request an audience, which took weeks of red tape even when it worked. But Vader was, as ever, an exception. If Vader wanted to speak to Palpatine, and it was a conversation Palpatine wanted to have, he'd find the connection opening immediately, like magic.

He knelt, now, in a corner of his second-floor quarters, a comfortable distance away from the tank. The Red Guards had been dismissed, and M4 was up on the guest floors working with Tarkin. It was just him, and the dark grand structure that contained him, and Palpatine. The blue translucent image of Palpatine's hooded face, and the dark smoke feeling of his presence. Vader flinched - invisibly, within his mask - at that feeling. Fought, for a moment, the remembered urge to hold himself still.

"I had expected to hear from you sooner, my friend," said Palpatine. "You may rise. We have much to discuss."

That one word, _rise,_ already answered Vader's biggest question.

He stood.

"Have I pleased you, my master?" he asked, because it was better to hear it confirmed aloud. He wanted to push Palpatine away, sink all the smoke below the lava river's surface and never have to feel it again. But that was not possible. In reality, everything in Vader's life depended on whether and how he pleased Palpatine.

"Yes. You have done precisely as I requested. The lesson is complete. Until and unless I foresee something else, I have no further concerns about your obedience."

"I did not warn Tarkin," said Vader. "But after he was hurt, he demanded an explanation, and I provided one. He has expressed an intention to discuss the matter with you himself."

Palpatine chuckled. "No doubt. Do not worry about that, my friend. I will handle it."

Vader hesitated. He hid little things from Palpatine all the time, or tried to, but this wasn't a little thing. It would not do to let Tarkin be the one who said it first.

"He intends to continue our relationship," said Vader. "Will that go against your wishes?"

He hated even having to ask. If he killed Palpatine and took over the galaxy himself, he wouldn't have to ask anyone a question like this ever again. If only.

Palpatine laughed again, long and low. "Of course not. I told you at the start, Tarkin is no threat. But how amusing that you blame him to my face, when your own intention is already the same." Vader drew back slightly, and Palpatine waved a holographic hand. "It does not matter, my friend. Your fiery heart is no threat to me, either. Have your fun. Enjoy your visit. I will call again tomorrow with work for you."

"As you wish, my master."

Vader bowed his head as Palpatine closed the connection.

It was really over, then. He had completed the lesson to his master's satisfaction. Followed directions. Proved his loyalty.

He hadn't had to lose Tarkin to do it, and that felt like a victory.

He wondered why none of the rest of it did.

*

Vader wanted to see Tarkin, but by the time Tarkin had packed, eaten, and dealt with his medical needs, there wasn't much time left over. Not enough for sex. Just enough for them to talk, aimlessly and amiably, in the entrance hall until the shuttle arrived. Tarkin sat on one of the black couches, his cane and suitcase leaning against its side, and Vader sat beside him. He occasionally felt Tarkin sag into him slightly, unconscious of doing so, as he'd done in the airspeeder. It wasn't an interesting feeling to Vader, but he let it happen. Tarkin had been through some things this weekend. He could sag if he needed to.

"This was certainly an interesting visit," Tarkin said. "I'd like the next one to be calmer. But apart from being injured, I can't say I'm not pleased with the result."

"Your standards are low," Vader informed him.

"Then let's raise them a little, shall we? Next time you think I'm in danger, you can start by telling me what the danger actually is."

Vader hesitated. The entrance hall had no windows, and nothing colored the artificial light within. But for a moment he thought he could see the red of the lava reflected on Tarkin's skin. A flame that lurked, waiting for its moment.

"There is one other thing," he said, "that I have not yet told you."

Tarkin shot him a very alarmed, suspicious look, and he immediately regretted saying it. That was not the way to introduce this topic. He wasn't sure what the right way was, but clearly that was not it.

"And what would that be, Vader?" Tarkin said flatly.

"Sometimes," said Vader, "I foresee people's deaths."

Force, this felt even worse than he'd expected. It had been a long time since he'd discussed his premonitions out loud with anyone, even Palpatine. But if anyone could be trusted to listen, surely it would be Tarkin.

"Go on," said Tarkin.

"I foresaw something of yours the night you arrived here. I did not see much detail. Not the time or place, or the precise cause. Only hints. Do you wish to know them?"

"Yes, I do."

He had relaxed fractionally, now that he knew what this was. But he had also drawn back. His gaze was careful, solemn, as it should be. Tarkin was taking this seriously.

"There will be something that you want very much," said Vader, "but that carries a risk. I do not know what it will be. I had worried that it might be me. But you have such a love of deadly things; it could be any of them. Whatever it is, you will want it, and you will be aware of the risk. The situation will turn against you, but you will not believe you are defeated. There will be a warning you ignore, and an offer of escape that you refuse. You will face the danger with your head held high. And it will destroy you."

He watched as Tarkin digested that, the minute careful movements of his mind. He was glad that Tarkin did not answer right away. Vader had feared he would brush it away. Try to blithely reassure him that it wouldn't happen. But it would.

Tarkin thought about it carefully for maybe half a minute, then raised his chin, looking Vader in the eyes. Ice-cold and unafraid.

"Good," he said.

It was not at all what Vader had expected him to say. But as he absorbed Tarkin's feelings, he realized it made sense. Tarkin was older than Vader by a couple of decades: close to the age where, if he hadn't loved his work so much, he might honorably retire. He'd had plenty of opportunity to consider his mortality, and what kind of legacy he wanted to leave.

From Tarkin's perspective, if his death was nearing anyway, then the death that Vader described was the best one possible.

*

Tarkin was still thinking about death - making sidelong affectionate conversation, pretending he wasn't still thinking about it - when the panel by the main entrance chimed, informing them that Pali's shuttle had touched down.

It was odd and endearing, the way Vader feared death. They both dealt death so frequently in the course of their work. Tarkin generally did it by giving orders from afar, but Vader was usually in the thick of it, the fire and smoke, the blood, the screams. He killed people out of impatience sometimes, even when the mission didn't demand it. One would think that Vader, of all people, was inured.

But there was a difference between _inured_ and _sociopathic._ Even in the Empire's cutthroat upper echelons, among those who led campaigns and enacted policies that they knew would kill thousands, most people maintained a handful of human connections too sacred to easily sacrifice. It wasn't hypocrisy; it was human nature, as inevitable as selfishness and sex. Vader did it too. And in his own rage-filled Vaderish way, when he feared for the people within that handful, Vader became as vulnerable as a child.

And Palpatine delighted in that vulnerability, no doubt. Which made Tarkin feel a little bit protective. _He_ knew that being cared for so intensely was a high honor, whether Vader wanted to call it love or not.

He struggled to his feet. His leg had already improved very slightly. Still a blackened mess under the bandages, still aching even with the painkillers, but it no longer immediately collapsed under him when it touched ground. He couldn't support any significant fraction of his weight, but he could use the cane and hobble along without falling on his face. M4-R3K had told him he could expect further rapid improvement, so long as he followed up with his doctors and did the dozens of things she'd listed to prevent complications.

"I will carry your luggage," Vader offered, watching him struggle.

"If you insist," said Tarkin, concealing his gratitude.

It was somehow absurd to look at, Vader's outsized armored frame carrying Tarkin's small suitcase. One of the thousands of normal things that no one ever expected Vader to do. When Vader got onto a Star Destroyer, all the odds and ends he needed were provided, either by his suit or by the ship's crew at his command. What about when Vader took a personal trip, like the visits he made to that sex club? Did he bring anything then? Tarkin wondered how he dealt with it. Droids, maybe. Or maybe he had a carrying bag big enough and black enough that it didn't look foolish in his hands.

The portcullis opened in front of them with a gout of dramatic steam. Directly in front of it lay that small round platform on which visitors were expected to wait.  Beyond that, the slender catwalk stretched its way to the landing platform where the shuttle waited, and the wide molten plains of Mustafar spread in every direction. Black ashen ground, rivers of lava, and the stormy red-gray sky above.

"I must say," said Tarkin, "I am feeling even less well-disposed towards lava than when I arrived."

"That will pass," said Vader behind him, amused.

Tarkin hobbled forward, and paused

It wasn't sentiment that stopped him. It was the fact that this catwalk was really quite narrow, and Tarkin's gait with the cane was not steady. He wasn't _constantly_ stumbling to the right or the left, but it had happened a few times since breakfast, and he was not sure he trusted himself to walk all the many yards down to the shuttle without accidentally falling into the lava and dying. For once in his life, Tarkin questioned the official Imperial policy on railings.

"Here," said Vader. He took the suitcase in one hand, and extended the other arm.

They walked up the catwalk arm in arm. Tarkin concentrated mainly on not looking down. And on not looking like he was leaning on Vader quite as hard as he really was.

The shuttle's ramp opened well in advance of Tarkin's arrival, and his bodyguards scurried out. There was a mild tizzy as they rushed forward to help him, then saw that Vader was already taking care of that, then visibly dithered about whether to rush in and relieve the Dark Lord of his burden, or stay out of it and let Vader finish doing as he pleased. This type of situation wasn't covered in their training. Tarkin would have to rectify that.

They reached the landing platform, and both bodyguards finally swooped in. One took the luggage, while the other extended an arm - nervously, though he masked it well - and took over from Vader, helping Tarkin aboard.

"Thank you," Tarkin said to everyone in general. He steadied himself against the bulkhead and turned back to face Vader.

Pali, he noted, had taken all of this in with polite equanimity, as if delivering people to Mustafar and retrieving them with serious injuries two days later was just the normal course of a working week.  "Ready to leave when you are, sir," she said.

Tarkin looked at Vader and imagined what they must have looked like walking together. Arm in arm, like cadets on a date. It took him a moment to remember why that mental image amused him so much, why it felt faintly familiar.

_Will I see you again?_ he thought, but of course, for him, that had never been a question.

"I will see you again," he asserted, in Vader's direction. "Preferably in more hospitable climes."

"We will see about the climes," said Vader.

And then the ramp retracted. Pali smoothly took off and the shuttle spiraled up, through the clouds, leaving the fortress and the lava and everything connected to them behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done! This is the last proper chapter - part 13 will just be a tiny little epilogue a few days later.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having returned to Coruscant, Tarkin has a few things to say to the Emperor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't in my original outline, but once I got a few chapters in, I realized how badly it needed to happen.

There was no use trying to get in touch with the Emperor before the Emperor decided it was time. And when Tarkin did speak to Palpatine, he wanted to be in possession of results. So for the next several days, between physiotherapy and putting out the dozen small governmental fires that had started in his absence, Tarkin finished reading the Project Stardust report. He appeared on schedule for the research administration committee's meeting, at which everyone spent hours debating the budgetary details but agreed that the project would, of course, go forward.

When Palpatine summoned him, he was ready.

The Imperial Palace was a different sort of grand darkness than Vader's. Fortress Vader's aesthetic was about lava and flame and the faint sense that someone had been trying too hard. Palpatine's was, by the standards of galactic despots, understated. Externally it looked similar to other important government buildings, except for the gates and guards that cut it off from ordinary Coruscant traffic. It had been a Jedi building originally; Palpatine had remodeled the interior, but had kept the outside walls more or less intact, an odd gesture of defiance against the dead Order that had tried to betray him.

Tarkin, by this point, had gotten better at walking with his cane. There was still a noticeable limp, but he could move along at a steady pace. Stairs were still a problem, though, and he struggled a bit on his way up the palace's monumental front steps.

The Royal Guards had been told to expect Tarkin's presence. They didn't move to help him, but they parted politely as he entered under the high front pillars and into the palace proper. New pairs of guards at each juncture nodded and allowed him onward. The interior of the Imperial Palace was designed to look startlingly dark, growing blacker and colder with each step further in.

Palpatine sat on his throne in a pillared, echoing room which was carved from the blackest stone Tarkin had ever encountered. Round windows let in enough light to pick out a few bright, vivid accents: the Royal Guards' crimson uniforms. the blue of a few communications panels, Palpatine's own pale face. The throne itself was deceptively simple, little more than an elegant inky armchair raised slightly above its dais, with two Royal Guards perched straight and correct in front. A pair of advisers conferred lazily at the side, like children playing at the Emperor's feet. The air was chilly enough that Tarkin always half-expected to see his breath.

Tarkin knew the protocols. He limped forward to an invisible line marking the halfway point between the door and the innermost pair of guards. He bowed, then, as deeply as the leg and the cane would comfortably allow. It was significantly less than the down-on-one-knee genuflection that protocol would normally dictate. Palpatine and his advisers would parse the gesture correctly: a mild insult justifiable by its context. Tarkin didn't feel like inflicting further pain on himself for the Emperor's sake, not when the Emperor was the reason for the pain that he already had.

"Grand Moff Tarkin," said Palpatine from his throne, a slight irony in his voice. "You may rise and address me. I summoned you here to discuss your recommendation regarding Project Stardust; do you have that for me?"

"Yes, my lord," said Tarkin, straightening. "And another matter as well, if you'll permit."

Palpatine smiled. "A personal matter. I thought so. Why don't we take care of that one first?" He turned to his guards and advisers. "Leave us."

Tarkin watched as the advisers and Royal Guards filed out of the room. He didn't drop his bland, correct, respectful expression until all of them were gone and the heavy doors shut.

"Really, Sheev?" he said then, with exasperation that didn't have to be feigned. "A lava monster?"

Palpatine chuckled. "You must admit it was effective."

"I will admit no such thing." Tarkin tapped his cane sharply on the floor. "I have served the Empire my entire career. I have put the Empire's needs above every other part of life and I have produced results accordingly. I have asked very little from you in return for my work, save for an appropriately high position in which to effectively carry it out. And some basic, common-sense considerations. Such as not being capriciously maimed the moment I manage to take a weekend off. Is this really how you repay loyalty?"

Palpatine was still chuckling. Ever since he consolidated power at the end of the Clone Wars, Palpatine had formed a rather off-putting habit of giggling at everything. As the vices of galactic despots went, laughter was a mild one, but Tarkin disliked it. The responsibilities of an Emperor ought to be approached with a bit of gravitas.

"How you delight me," said Palpatine. "I feel your anger and your wounded pride. So few in the Empire would dare to address me as you do. I find it refreshing. But do not mistake that indulgence for a weakness on my part. You have always had a terrible delusion that merely asserting yourself in the face of power can protect you. Nothing will, should I ever tire of you."

"Be that as it may," Tarkin said, "I want assurance that this won't happen again."

Palpatine smiled sharply. "Is that all? Then you have nothing to fear. You know I never play the same game twice."

This was the only true assurance Palpatine would ever give. This specific thing, with a lava monster appearing under a runway at Fortress Vader and grabbing Tarkin by the leg, while Vader stood still under orders not to help him, would not happen again. Any small variation on that theme, any other whimsical disaster that Palpatine could imagine, was still fair game. Tarkin could press for more specific promises, and he might even get them, but they would amount to the same thing. All he'd accomplish would be a narrowing of the loopholes.

Tarkin liked Palpatine, abstractly, the way he liked all competently dangerous people. Galaxies were intricate organisms with millions of moving parts, and it took nothing less than a mind like Palpatine's to keep one in line. But Tarkin did not relish having Palpatine's attention on him. If dealing with Vader took special attention, this was orders of magnitude worse.

"Let me be more specific," he said. "You're aware Lord Vader and I have been seeing each other. I would like that to continue, and I would like not to be injured because of it. Vader tells me that you don't disapprove. He says the incident with the monster was an isolated one, meant to teach him a lesson based on something you foresaw, and not any punishment to either of us. But if that's the case, I'd like to hear it from you. If you do disapprove, and would like to induce us to stop, then I'd rather hear that straight out as well."

"Ah," said Palpatine, settling back on his throne. "You know, if I told Lord Vader in so many words to stop seeing someone, I believe he might attempt to defy me. But you would obey my instructions, wouldn't you? You bluster, but you really are that loyal."

Not that loyal, Tarkin thought. Just not a fool. Defying Palpatine, in that scenario, would lead to things orders of magnitude worse than heartbreak. Both for him and for his object of affection.

"I don't concede that you have a claim over my personal life in general," said Tarkin. "But where Vader is concerned, yes. You're his master. Even I'm not reckless enough to get in the way of that."

"Good." Palpatine's expression softened a little. There was something nearly affectionate in it, as he looked into the distance, considering Vader. "Then, rest assured, I am not angry with you. But it would be an overstatement to say I approve. I have tried to keep Lord Vader from distractions. He is so eminently distractible, so impulsive. I liked it better when he channeled all his feelings into serving me. But I have learned that a mind like Lord Vader's can't survive that way forever. He requires connection. At first he needed it only in a twisted, casual form. That was all he was ready for. But he did need it, lest he give in to despair altogether. As soon as I understood that, I knew he'd one day reach a stage where he required this, too. It was inevitable."

"Then you will allow it?" Tarkin pressed. He wanted a clear yes or no. He disliked having to ask for one; it reminded him of some of his adolescent relationships. Having to approach a sweetheart's overprotective parents and ask awkwardly for permission to court her. But Vader and Palpatine had the arrangement they had, and it couldn't be helped.

"I suppose I must." Palpatine eyed Tarkin, some private amusement playing behind his gaze. "If this did have to happen, I'm glad it was you. There are so many sentimental unfortunates out there who might lead Lord Vader astray. But I know where your loyalties lie, and I can predict your intentions. You're safe for him, inasmuch as love is ever safe. I shall content myself with that."

Tarkin squared his shoulders, eyeing Palpatine back.

He had spent a great deal of time, since that night on Mustafar, considering Palpatine's true intentions. Vader had described the lava monster as a simple lesson, with a single purpose. But Palpatine never did things for only one reason.

Tarkin had thought, at first, that Palpatine intended to drive him and Vader apart. The lesson, on its face, seemed designed for that. Tarkin had suffered and blamed Vader for it. Vader had tried to cope by pushing Tarkin away. Vader had wanted to send Tarkin away forever, by the end. And Tarkin had been very nearly ready to let him.

But if that was the lesson's true purpose, then the lesson had a flaw.

If Palpatine had truly wanted Vader and Tarkin's relationship to end, he could have made a very simple modification. He had already told Vader not to explain things to Tarkin before the fact. He could easily have told him not to explain it afterwards, either. Vader would have obeyed. Yet Palpatine had not given that order.

Palpatine's pawns were often given the illusion of choice; it was more interesting than simple coercion, and more plausibly deniable. But by the time a person knew what was going on, by the time they _saw_ Palpatine giving them the choice, it was no longer a choice about obeying him or not. Even if it appeared to be. Both choices would be victories for Palpatine in their different ways, each a contingency he could turn to his advantage.

If Vader and Tarkin's relationship ended, so much the better. Vader would remain isolated and dependent on his master. Having pushed Tarkin away himself, he would blame himself for his loneliness more than he blamed Palpatine. The advantage for Palpatine in that scenario was obvious.

But it had not ended. And that, too, could be useful.

Before the disaster with the lava monster, Vader and Tarkin's relationship had been uncertain. They'd liked each other, clearly, but it had been hard to tell how deep that went or what stresses it would withstand. The monster had neatly answered that question for all of them. For Vader and Tarkin, but also for Palpatine, who had predicted that Vader would need a relationship like this eventually, and who knew for sure, now, that Vader had one.

How convenient that it had happened to Vader, when Vader was ready, with the partner Palpatine preferred.

Tarkin knew better than to ask. But he wondered, now, just how long Palpatine had been watching them. How many coincidences he might have quietly arranged along the way. Perhaps that was paranoia, but it could be hard to tell, with Palpatine, where paranoia really began.

It didn't matter. He'd seen the choice and he'd made it. Stay with Vader, knowing that Palpatine would be involved, or leave. He preferred to stay, even now.

"Well," he said briskly, "that's what I wanted to know, then. Shall we discuss my recommendation for Project Stardust?"

"Yes," said Palpatine. "I look forward to that conversation. I will call my advisers back for it in a moment. But will you promise me one thing, first?"

His expression sank suddenly. A parody of a very old, weak, shaky little man. Tarkin stilled. Palpatine had so many faces, and Tarkin had learned most of their meanings. Wild laughter was one thing; he did that frequently, usually when things were going well. But this expression, seemingly vulnerable as it was, meant real danger.

"What would that be?" Tarkin asked.

"Will you promise me you'll take good care of my apprentice?" Palpatine quavered. "He has the most unpredictable, tempestuous heart. I should hate to think of the effect if it were broken. Should his new romantic adventures harm him, or should they fail to nurture his connection to the Dark Side, I would really be quite beside myself."

And the trap snapped shut, as Tarkin had known it would.

Palpatine would be watching Tarkin, now, the same way he watched Vader. He would expect Tarkin's compliance in any aspect of the relationship with which he cared to meddle. The next time Palpatine wanted to use Vader's feelings against him, he would want Tarkin, not as an unwitting victim, but as an accomplice.

Tarkin knew Palpatine was cruel. He had accepted that long ago. The galaxy needed a strong hand to keep it in line, and that was impossible without cruelty. So the way that Palpatine treated Vader had not surprised him. But he had not liked it. Human nature dictated that the people one loved were exceptions, even when one was all right with hurting the rest of the galaxy.

He'd had thoughts, still only half-formed, of trying to _protect_ Vader. If only by teaching him to detect Palpatine's games with a little more clarity. Equipping him, to the extent that he was able, to protect himself.

If he truly wanted to do that, under Palpatine's watchful gaze, it would require a great deal of delicacy. He wasn't even sure he could do it. But he knew he'd be tempted to try.

Well, Tarkin thought with dark amusement, he had always enjoyed a challenge.

He raised his chin. "I haven't failed you yet, my lord."

And Palpatine's answering cackle haunted him all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This maniacal laugh brought to you by the Episode IX teaser trailer. Who's hype? I'm hype.
> 
> *
> 
> AAAAAAAAND WE'RE DONE! OMG. I have literally never finished a multi-chapter fic on here before? It has been SUCH a ride and I've learned so much from doing it. I don't know what I'm going to DO with my free time now that I don't have magical villain porn to work on at all hours.
> 
> Y'all who've commented or given kudos are a lifeline and have kept me convinced that this weird trash story was worth writing after all. Thanks for sticking with it. I appreciate you!


End file.
